Master of My Sea
by Catherine Braganza
Summary: Kára Ulfsdóttir would do what it takes to live up to a father she didn't know; Ivar Ragnarsson would do what it takes to show his mettle; Queen Aslaug would do what it takes to keep them away from each other. And Ragnar Lothbrok struggles to keep his sanity with the help of a Völva. Theyre all connected in a shrouded tangle of the past and the dead. Ivar/OC bit Ragnar/OC. Slow Burn
1. 0: The Last Sunrise

**Master of My Sea**

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 **Disclaimer:** I only own my OCs. This isn't going to follow the timeline of the show, nor will it be completely historically accurate, but I'll try to be as realistic as possible, as well as do the best research as I can. I assure you though, that everything I've done is within the realm of possibility, which includes changing the condition of what was wrong with Ivar's legs. Since there is no solid evidence of what his condition was, I've talked it over with some people and determined a completely believable reason which will be addressed in this story.

This story will have a lot of dark themes pertaining to death, mental illness, and other things that should be fairly obvious for a story/show about Vikings. If you're easily triggered, it's probably not a good idea to read this fic.

 **Warning: This is a slow burn romance.**

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 **prologue:  
THE LAST SUNRISE**

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The snow crunched with every step he took, followed by the groaning of the ice under the pressure of his weight. He neared the center of the lake, where the crystalline water began to thin and the air in his lungs grew heavy. The bitter winds swirled around him, calling out his name almost in a taunting manner. His clouded eyes were glued to his feet, red and frost bitten from walking barefooted on the snow and ice, but they were numb and no longer felt anything. The blizzard was harsh that day, so harsh that if he dared to look up from his feet, the flying snow and ice shards would cut his eyes and blind him. They already stung his cheeks, forehead, and nose harshly, but now, it did not matter. Nothing mattered.

The man had stopped suddenly, with his hands balled into fists at his sides and his breathing shaking and harsh. His teeth chattered as he bared them in anticipation of what laid underneath him. He waited for the moment when the ice would cave underneath him and his body would be enveloped in the cold grip of death beneath the frozen lake.

He let go of his senses the moment he closed his eyes, all except for his ears. They could not hear further than the rapid winds that whistled loudly around him and threatened to push him onto his back. However, mixed between the harsh thundering currents, he heard the sound of wings, or what he believed to be wings. They were so similar to the winter winds that he had told himself it was just that and kept his eyes closed, until he felt his face grow warm as if he was laying in a soft field under the mid-spring sun.

When he opened his eyes, a large woman stood before him. She was a foot taller, with long legs and broad shoulders, and her hair tumbled down her shoulders to her barefeet in drapes of blood-orange that contrasted the sea of white grey around them. On top of her head was a helmet of gold, with two pearl coloured wings from either side of the temple of the helm, and there under the brow were a pair of sea-weed coloured eyes shining through. Her face was coloured in sorrow as she stared at him with dew clinging to her eyelashes.

" _Hvað ertu að gera?_ "

He did not know what to say, especially not now, where he was, in front of this divine being. It wasn't until they fell from his chin and onto his trembling hand that he had realized he had been crying hot tears. They didn't stop, and kept falling from his cheeks like a waterfall, falling down to his toes and pelted the ice underneath him.

" _Ég veit ekki,_ " came his answer at last through trembling lips.

A long pale arm extended towards him, her elegantly long fingers moved to touch his cheek, where his tears betrayed him and fell freely without his knowledge. However, before she could have brushed the tip of her finger against his skin, the ice under him cracked and gave in. He crashed through the glass-like surface instantly, and all the warmth was washed off his skin the moment the water bit his flesh. He stared upwards with wide blurred eyes, clawing at the water, trying to climb up the wall of darkness that curled around his body. The light that shone through the hole he fell through began to shrink the further he sank. Before the cold could take his sight, he could see a large body follow him through the water. Silky red ribbons clouded the water as the woman dove after him with her arms stretched foreword.

It was too late. His muscles had turned to lead, and his last breath of air escaped his throat and out of his open, blue lips. With a final blink, he stared into the face, blurred by water and death, that looked to him like his last sunrise.

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 **Sept 21/17 edit: I didn't think I needed to address this, but after the second person pointing this out, I thought I should. I did not put in the translation of the Icelandic for a reason. The prologue is supposed to be mysterious and ominous, and if I wanted the words to be known, I wouldn't have bothered to put in Icelandic/old norse anyway. This is all I will say about it, because I don't want to give anything away.**

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 **Author's note: I plan on publishing the first chapter later today, probably when I come home from work, so I know I will not get any reviews, but they'd be greatly appreciated.**

 **The Old Norse in this chapter is actually Icelandic, since I read that it's the closest to Old Norse. If it didn't translate well, blame Google Translate.**


	2. 1: The Bird And The Snake

**Master of My Sea**

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 **So I just wanted to repeat that the timeline for this story does not follow the one of the show. It starts off sometime after Ragnar returns from Paris, and much time after Floki's punishment and the death of his daughter, but the ages of everyone, especially the children and Ragnar's sons, are upped a few years. So yes, this story starts off as them being children.**

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 **chapter one:  
THE BIRD AND THE SNAKE**

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The spring breeze was stronger the higher up the hill Ivar went. Without the help of someone else, or the wheelbarrow he was put in, the twelve-year old struggled quite a bit to reach his destination. By the time that he got to a tree, his face was flushed and he was sweating; the breeze felt like the kiss of a goddess, and was well appreciated. If his mother knew he had left on his own and climbed up the hill, she would keep him in a cage once she got her hands on him.

Ivar had no muscle, unlike his brothers, but he stirred restless constantly sitting in a cot or chair, glued to the hip of his mother, and always under the shadow of her eye. This moment on the hill, as high he could possibly get, was his new sanctuary. A moment of solace and freedom; even the pain in his arms and stomach from crawling like a snake on his belly was invited. He relished in the aches in his muscles, as they were a reminder of being alive, when he spent his entire life lying like a corpse.

Once he situated himself between the roots of the tree he decided to rest on, he took his skin of weak mead and took a well deserved drink. He winced at the taste, the bittersweet liquid burning down his throat. That was another thing his mother did not allow him to have, but every once in awhile, Ubbe would sneak him a horn of it at feasts. He still hadn't gotten used to the taste, but at this moment it was his victory spirits. Small for everyone else, but a big one for him. Ivar leaned his head back and relaxed, then lazily gazed at the view from where he sat. He could see the stretch of the sea from here, and the cliffs on the far west that hugged Kattegat. From here, he felt like he was on top of the world, standing taller than anyone else.

Suddenly his peace was interrupted by an object falling and hitting him painfully on his shoulder. He winced as his hand flew to his shoulder, and when he pulled away he saw bright red on his fingers. Next to him shone a silver arrowhead, just the size of a finger, but the tip was sharp and had a small dot of red, his blood, on the very tip. He furrowed his eyebrow at it, and picked it up gingerly, then weighed it in his palm.

"Hey, that's mine!"

The voice came from above him, so he quickly looked up. How did he not notice someone was sitting in this tree?

"What are you doing?" Ivar asked, his fingers curling around the arrowhead.

"Fletching," she answered, unmoved from the branch she sat on, which was at least 6 or more feet above Ivar's head.

"You could've killed me, if this landed on my head," he held up the arrow in his hand and waved it at her.

She seemed to roll her eyes, "It wouldn't have killed you. At most, it would have given you a nice scar to brag about."

"Why would I brag about a scar I got from an arrow falling on my head?"

She shrugged, "Boys always lie about how they got a scar. Now, come on, give me my arrow, it's my last one."

Ivar's nostrils flared a bit, and looked at her through an irritated hooded gaze, "I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I said I can't," he responded aggressively. His lips curled, as his fingers did around the arrow. His day was ruined. His sanctuary compromised by a tree-dwelling ginger and her falling arrows, and now his shoulder was bleeding on his tunic. Mother would not be happy.

The girl strained her neck to get a better look at him, and immediately saw his legs, thin and bound together by leather belts and iron buckles. She immediately knew who it was; she'd be a fool if she didn't.

"Hold on," she said, but Ivar ignored her. His hand went back to his shoulder, his lip curled in pain and annoyance. As soon as he got the chance, he would shiv the girl with her own bloody arrow; it was entirely her fault, not his.

A curtain of red and orange disrupted his view of the sea, and a pair of green-blue eyes stared at him upside down. They were so close that their noses touched, which caused Ivar to pull back in surprise, uncomfortable with the close proximity of a girl that wasn't his mother. He glanced up, noticing that she was hanging off the branch above him by the grip of the back of her knee.

"What are you, part bat?"

"Just give me my arrowhead," she extended her hand.

Ivar looked at her, then to her hand; it was blistered and full of tiny cuts. Dots of red were on her fingertips, likely from fletching, but the state of it overall showed signs of labour. Her hands weren't the delicate hands most girls had, which meant that she was likely an orphan, or some kind of working hand's child. Ivar looked at his own hands, smooth and untainted, save for the dirt and slight scratches from his trip up the hill.

His fingers tightened around the arrowhead, the action wasn't lost on the girl. Her eyes narrowed at him, but he didn't notice that she was watching him closely.

"If you cut me with it, I'll punch you in the throat," the threat snapped Ivar out of his thoughts. His eyes looked at her, for a moment a flash of fear flickered across his young blue eyes before it was quickly replaced by with the same irritation. He then shoved the arrowhead into her open hand and pulled away from her.

"I wasn't going to cut you," he huffed, crossing his arms.

The girl ignored him as she pulled herself up to the branch with ease. Ivar watched with acute envy as she expertly flipped over the branch before dropping before him perfectly on her feet without losing her balance.

"I was told not to go near you," she said out of the blue, her eyes looking at the arrowhead, not missing the presence of blood on the tip. "Did this cut you?"

With furrowed brows, Ivar adjusted himself on the floor before moving his hand to his shoulder. "It's only a scratch—" He didn't want to know that she hurt him. This was the first time he actually got a scratch or cut that deep, even if it wasn't as deep to most people's standards. However, her first statement held more interest to him. "— Who told you not to go near me?"

She looked at him finally, "The other children. They saw you kill that boy with an axe, simply because you did not like him."

He stared back her with clenched teeth and a jutted jaw. It had been a couple of years since that had happened, but he forgot it completely. It was only now, with her mentioning it had brought back the memory. It came to him so vividly, as if it was a dream he had the night before. From the sound of the skull crushing from the impact of his axe, to his head splitting open so easily, as if he was cutting into an apple. The once forgotten memory stirred something in him, pulling at his belly button, which seemed to intensify in ferocity when he matched her eyes. She did not seem phased by it, by the unperturbed look she gave him.

With his lip curled, he answered with a slight tilt of his head. "Maybe you should listen to them, as you are not quite high on my list of people I like after this first meeting."

The girl gave a snort, "I'm not afraid of you."

"How very stupid of you, then. After all, I did kill a boy for less of a reason. You did maim me with your stupid arrow. You should be afraid of me."

Her green eyes rolled, the curl of the corner of her lips showed her amusement, which only irritated him more, if that was possible. "All I need to do is move five feet to the left or climb back in this tree. Besides, you came up here unarmed, which was stupid of you."

Ivar launched himself at her, his arms outreached, aiming for her throat, but before he could even touch her, a dagger was placed under his chin. He froze, and suddenly he felt his blood run ice cold in fear. The feeling of dread crept into his mind as he found himself staring into this girl's eyes, just as wild and unpredictable that some would say was like his own.

"That's quite the journey you took, from your cushioned seat in the hall. You traveled all the way up here, where no one could possibly find you," She kept the dagger still on his chin. There was nothing impressive about it, it was about 5 inches long, with a cloth handle, and it had early signs of rust; she was clearly using it to fletch the feathers. Still, it was enough to end his life without effort, all she needed to do was drag it across his throat, which was only a couple of inches from where she held it. "If I kill you, no one would know. All I need to do is throw your body off the cliff, and no one will ever find you."

Ivar swallowed, his hands shook either out of fear or anger, he did not know. But he felt resilient nonetheless. He was too prideful and resentful to show he was frightened, especially to a stupid peasant girl. He was a son of Ragnar! He wasn't afraid of death.

"Do it," He jutted out his chin and widened his eyes, challenging her. "I don't care."

The girl just stared at him, knife still at his throat, eyes searching his. She was completely unreadable, outside the sly smirk she had not let fallen since she pulled the dagger on him. The girl took this moment to examine him fully, since she had no chance before crossing paths. His face was showing signs of puberty, his hair was darkening, and his brow was showing the signs of manhood. Ivar did not look like he had when he murdered that boy. Small as he was, he was still Ragnar's son, and they all took a liking to him in some shape or form. Even a cripple, Ivar was still attractive, and as a twelve year old girl, she obviously noticed this distinction.

In a quick movement, the knife was moved from his chin, but in it's place were a pair of soft petal-like lips on his. It was fast, too fast, and Ivar questioned if it even happened. Before he knew it, he was left moulded against the tree trunk, staring at the back of the giggling girl as she ran across the meadow and down the hill.

"Nice to meet you, Ivar!"

The journey home was even more exhausting than the journey up the hill. His muscles still ached from before, and on top of that, the wound on his shoulder added to the pain. It bled through his tunic, down to his clavicle and he could feel it sticking against his breast. By the time he reached Kattegat, his injured arm was on fire, but everything else was numbed in comparison. The sun had begun to set, and there were only a few people standing outside on the docks, mostly slaves and peasants doing their jobs. Ivar could see the orange light peaking through the door of the Hall, where he knew his mother would be sitting, waiting; worried. He was honestly surprised that she wasn't ripping and tearing down houses to find him.

Just as he was going to drag his body in that direction, a familiar voice stopped him.

"There you are," Floki appeared, and Ivar froze. Laying on his belly, the boy looked up at him, expecting him to have a furrowed brow and a lecture on his tongue. However, it was the opposite; Floki looked amused, his eyes kind yet twinkling in mischief as he squatted down next to him. "You surprise me, Ivar. I did not think a cripple would get too far if he were crawling on his belly."

Ivar rolled his eyes and groaned as he flopped on his back before sitting up, "Help me up, Floki."

In that moment, the older man had noticed the dark stain coming from his shoulder, and his amusement disappeared and changed to one of concern. "Who did that to you?"

The boy's nostrils flares before giving a pointed look at Floki and repeated a little forcefully, "Help me up."

He hesitated before relenting and taking the boy's good arm and hauling him onto his back. Ivar winced and gritted his teeth, but allowed him to carry him away from the longhouse, and into a separate shelter that was used as an infirmary for the common folk. Floki sat him down in a stool, and lit a lantern before going to work to prepare to mend the wound.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" The viking asked, his back turned to the boy.

"I climbed a hill," His answer was laced with condescension, which didn't help it's verity.

"Did the hill attack you?" He turned around, grabbed the dagger from his hip and started to rip the seams of Ivar's tunic. Dry and fresh blood were painted all over his shoulder, but the wound looked like a puncture; round and slightly jagged. The perfect shape of the tip of an arrow. Taking a damp cloth soaked in ale, Floki went to work on cleaning the blood and disinfecting the wound.

Ivar winced and jerked back, glaring at Floki, "Ow!"

Floki tilted his head at him mockingly, "Oh, did that sting you? Do you need me to get Aslaug to come kiss it better?"

"No!"

"Then sit still, or you're going to make it worse for yourself."

Pouting, Ivar sat up straight, but kept the snarl on his face as his mentor proceeded in mending the wound. There was some silence between them, the only sound was Ivar's soft groaning as he attempted to suppress the pain between gritted teeth. Once Floki got out the needle and put it under the candle flame, Ivar briefly looked at him before caving.

"A girl kissed me," His eyes flickered away, almost embarrassed, especially under the circumstances.

Floki looked at him for a long second before returning his eyes to the flame, waiting for the needle to turn a bright red. "Did she change her mind, and try to stab you after?"

Ivar scoffed, "No. Her stupid arrow fell on me. She was in a tree."

Floki gave a giggle, and sat back down next to the pouting boy. The viking thoroughly enjoyed the irony of a boy glued to the floor like a snake, and a girl in a tree like a bird crossing paths like a cruel fate. "Hold still-" he took the needle and thread and made the first puncture into the flesh.

Ivar swore as he grit his teeth and tightened his fists. He mentally cursed the same girl in question, and Floki for mocking him, but he remained seated, patient, albeit flustered beyond measure.

"Did you enjoy it?" Floki asked, as he continued to stitch the wound.

Still in pain, Ivar spoke through his teeth. "I-do not...know! Ah!"

"Almost done-" The third stitch, and finally the fourth. He took the thread and cut it with his teeth, then tied it while he continued. "What do you mean, you do not know?"

Breathing hard, Ivar loosened his fists. "One minute, she was threatening to kill me, the next thing I know she had her lips on me, and ran away."

Floki gave another giggle and glanced at the boy as he cleaned up the rest of the blood. "Sounds like quite the woman. What is your future bride's name?"

Ivar tilted his head to look at his mentor with a utterly disgusted look, "I don't know, and she's not my bride!"

"Well, she certainly made an impression on you, my dear Ivar," He tossed the bloodied cloth and dumped it into the bucket of water.

"Only because of how annoying she was. Even her hair was annoying; bright red, like a ray of sun on your eye, coming through a crack in the wall while you try to sleep."

Floki paused for a moment, looking at the profile of his best friend's youngest son. His eyes flickered to the window and the door before taking a long cloth and started to bandage the boy's shoulder, "Red hair, you say?"

Ivar looked at him suspiciously before nodding, "Yes…. and green eyes. Do you know her?"

Floki paused again, just before tying the knot of the bandage. He was avoiding the boy's gaze, but he finally sighed and gently placed his hand on the boy's other shoulder. Floki brought his face close to his so his eyes leveled with the boy's, and his forehead nearly touching the other's as well. The action made Ivar's blood went slightly cold at the ominous aura that poured into the room the moment Floki drew serious.

"I do, my dear Ivar, and there is something that you must know," He gripped the boy's shoulder a little tighter, and his voice grew low and dark. "This red-haired girl you saw…. She will, one day, be the mother of your children."

Floki burst out in a fit of giggles as he pulled away from Ivar, who in turn began to punch him in the shoulder, screaming: "Shut up! I do not like her!"

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 **Well that was the most cute I could possibly write. I hope Ivar and Floki didn't sound too out of character since this is my first viking fic. I'm sure I'll get better with time.**

 **Next chapter has a lot more info in it, you'll learn more about the girl in the tree and her past. I usually don't like to keep OCs completely mysterious, because it's hard to connect to them when you don't know anything about them, so don't worry about her sounding like one of those surreptitious Mary Sues.**

 **I don't expect to get any reviews until a few more chapters in, but I'd still love some, as well as alerts/faves so I know people are actually enjoying the story!**

 **~CB**


	3. 2: The Red Woman

**Master of My Sea**

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 **I've done a lot of research in the area that this chapter covers, so I hope I did it justice when I got around to writing a character like this. A a fair warning this chapter and the next isn't going to be like the first. Like I said, it's a slow burn, so I'm setting the vibe for character relationships with my OCs, as well as some character backstory.**

 **Also, I want to thank everyone who favourited and alerted, and to HeavensWeatherHellsCompany, for being my first reviewer :3**

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 **chapter two:**  
 **THE RED WOMAN**

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The following day had came with a sore body, and a sore head. The cause of the latter was not from Floki, or his journey up the hill, but of his mother and the endless lecturing he had to endure when Floki carried him into his family's home.

She immediately fretted, especially when her eyes landed onto his bandaged up shoulder and his dirty state. Aslaug's immediate assumption was that he was kidnaped, and then beaten out of cruelty, but when the story was told to her (with the exclusion of the girl), the tone in his mother's voice changed. Aslaug then proceeded to berate her son over his carelessness; how he could have fallen down the hill and cracked his head, or if someone where to find him and kidnap him for a prince's ransom. Ivar merely half listened with a sunken head and a cold blue stare at the wall of the longhouse. What was worse still, he had to hear Sigurd's sniggers from the other side, followed by comments being made under his breath. It had ended up with Ivar launching himself at his insufferable older brother, and Floki holding him off.

Ivar was pulled away from the hall of the longhouse, and brought to a room adjacent to cool down. Floki left him and went to talk to his mother. About fifteen minutes later, Floki had a pleased smile on his face as he clasped his shoulder.

"Your mother has agreed it is time for you to train with your brothers,"

Ivar looked up, his sour expression disappeared to one of surprise, "She did?" It had been sometime since Aslaug had asked Floki to take him under his wing and make him viking, but it had not gone beyond the teachings of the gods. He told him stories and war strategies, and smithing techniques, but his mother was always been apprehensive about him picking up an axe and sword and actually fighting.

"Yes, and we start tomorrow," Floki answered him as he went over to sit across from him.

"Why not today?" The boy asks with vigor. He made a movement to get off from his bench, but Floki stopped him.

"You body still aches from yesterday's journey; it is not wise for you to put more strain on your weak muscles at this moment, Ivar," When Floki finished explaining, the cripple rolled his eyes and let his shoulders sink.

"I am fine," he insisted.

"If you were fine you would not need me to carry you around Kattegat, little prince," Ivar's tone and expression was smug as he brought the horn of ale he held to his lips.

Ivar jutted his chin at him, "I don't need you to carry me around. I am not a helpless babe."

Floki gave a small giggle before he decided to humour him. "Alright, Ivar, have it your way. You can come with me to see a friend of mine just outside of the city, but I do not want to hear you complain."

"I won't!" Ivar pulled himself off the bench and onto the floor with a wince that Floki saw, despite the boy's efforts to hide it.

They had moved out of the city without much word. Ivar was too busy trying not to make sounds over the strain and pain he was causing his body, namely his shoulder, from trying to keep up with Ivar's long strides. After a while, he took the dagger he had at his hip and started to penetrate the land to help him pull his body faster. Once the houses of Kattegat were behind him, and they were now trekking through the uneven ground of the forest, Ivar decided to speak.

"Who is this friend you are having me drag my body to see?" He was irritated as he was sweaty. The young viking was slowly regretting his decision.

Ivar's resilience was unwavering and Floki had took notice that without comment, but he knew that his act of starting conversation was an attempt to keep his mind off of the pains in his muscles. Alas, Floki humoured him by answering his question. "Her name is Hulda, and she is a Völva," he answered simply. When he did not hear Ivar's tell tale sounds of muffled grunts and his legs being dragged across dirt and rock, he looked over his shoulder.

The teenager had stopped and looked at Floki with wide eyes and an open mouth. "A Völva? Your friend is a witch?!"

Floki turned back around and continued walking, "Yes, she is. And it is within both our best interest for you to behave. You do not want to anger a Völva, as it is a direct disrespect to the gods."

After a moment of staring at his mentor's back, Ivar started moving again, but he wasn't finished with his questions. "What do the völvur have to do with the gods?"

Floki tisked him, "You have not been paying attention to the stories, Sweet Ivar. The völvur are allied with the fate goddesses, and so bestowed great powers by the goddess Freya, herself."

Ivar did not say a word for a long moment as he processed this information while simultaneously ignoring the ache in his joints. "What do you seek from this 'Hulda'?"

"We shall see once we get there," Floki answered cryptically.

They continued on for ten more minutes, up a hill and over rocks that looked like steps. He could hear the sound of running water from the river that flowed into the lake nearby, and that was when Floki announced that they had arrived. Ivar slowed to a halt once he looked up to see a peculiar little house nestled into the rock face under a precipice where a large oak tree sat. The tree's roots grew all around the house, over the ledge and disappeared into the earth. The little cottage itself had a roof of overgrown grass, which made it hard to see if you did not know it was there, nor if you didn't notice the depiction of three cats facing left, right and center carved into the wooden door.

Once they approached the house, Ivar took this moment to at last rest by hauling himself onto a large rock nearby. Floki paused in front of the structure, his eyes looking around the area, following up the roots of the oak tree and finally up to the branches. The shipwright squinted up into the sun to see a figure sitting up high in the large tree, which caused a smile to grace his face.

"Where is your mother, Kára?" When floki questioned the tree, Ivar gave him an odd look, and questioned possibly for the 100th time in his life the state of Floki's sanity.

Though a voice, distant from above, answered him, "By the river. She is waiting for you."

Ivar's face twisted in confusion, looking from Floki and up to the branches of the wide and tall oak tree, trying to identify who was speaking those words. He began to question his own sanity before Floki began to talk to the disembodied voice again.

"Would you keep my friend company?" The voice did not answer, but it must have responded nonverbally, since Floki seemed pleased as he turned around and walked towards the prince and patted him on the head. "Wait here."

"Let me come with you," Ivar insisted as he twisted his body to face him and simultaneously pulling away from the man's offending hand.

"Not now. I must go alone, but we will be back," was all he said before descending down the hill and disappearing out of view.

Ivar huffed and turned to look back at the house and up the tree, but could not see anything. After a few moments of silence, Ivar finally sighed and began to drag himself off the rock and closer to the house, where he had a better view of the branches that hung overhead. He squinted at the sunlight that peeked through the foliage, but he could clearly see a silhouette of a body, and a halo of orange-red hair that the sun shawn behind.

"It's you!"

Floki had made it down to the riverbed where it narrowed, and that was where he saw her, sitting on a fallen tree, bare feet bathing in the shallows of the moving water. She stuck out quite a bit; in a canvas of green and brown, she was a red flower in the center. The woman was clad in a burgundy robe, long enough to reach the water and soak the ends. Then there was her hair, longer than any woman Floki had seen before, and in colour it blended in with the robe itself. Her eyes, though, were the colour of the ocean after a storm; mournful and misty, as if she is always looking into the dreary past.

"It is good to see you, Floki," she said before she looked at him, but when she did those mournful eyes of her brightened with her smile. "It has been some time."

The shipwright sat next to her, crossing his leg over his knee and began to unlace his boot. "You knew I was coming?" He asked, repeating the same thing with his other boot.

"I knew you would, one day, as soon as you and Ragnar returned from Paris," she turned to look back at the river.

"So, you have heard of my failures?" Floki put his feet into the water next to her.

"The fates have told me, yes," she admitted and looked at him, and measured his profile. "I am sorry, Floki, of what happened to you and your daughter."

He breathed heavily through his nose as he looked down at his dirty fingernails, "I was not a good father. Perhaps that is why the gods are punishing me."

"Is that why you come to me? So you could find some kind of reasoning for your failures?"

At this he turned to her, "What did I do to anger the gods, Hulda? Everything I do, is to please them. I sacrificed that christian for them, as they told me, and-"

"Floki," she stopped him, her eyes finding his and rendering him silent. "The reason for your failures is no curse, or punishment from the gods. It is consequence. You were not content in happiness, and you begun to find deeper meaning in things that were not there. You did not anger Odin, you angered your friends and family, and were punished by them for your mistakes."

It was evident that the viking did not like this answer by the way his nose flared, and his muscles tensed under his skin. "And what of my Angrboda? Was I the one who created the fever that took her? Was she a consequence of my mistakes?"

Hulda sighed and returned her gaze to the water, and watched it move along the rocks like silk brought to life. "Your path to redemption has already been decided for you, but you must seek it in the shadows before you. You will not be able to see it until you make three ultimate sacrifices."

His eyes searched for her face and his mind stirred with eagerness. Floki's body turned so one of his feet were pulled out of the water in a jolt, so his body was now fully turned to her, "Who or what must be sacrificed? I will do anything to win the favour of the gods. Anything."

The witch gave a mournful smile before shaking her head, "It is not that simple."

"Of course it isn't, but I am ready!"

He sounded much like the child he had brought with him; too eager to begin before he was ready, before he actually knew what it would take. Only Floki was no child, and Hulda was not going to speak to him in riddles like the Seer would. "Floki, you know more than anyone of my past, but you do not know how I became who you see in front of you. I was not always Wand Wed, and I cannot claim to have the years of experience as most of the völvur that travel this world have."

Floki remained silent, watching the muscles in her face soften and turn sorrowful under the weight of the memories that stirred behind those storm-ridden eyes of hers. His body began to ease and feel heavy, his feet returned to the water next to hers, and the coolness calmed his temper while her story filled his soul with sorrow.

"The gods had a plan for me; I was told that by the Seer when I was thirteen summers old. He said to me that I must suffer three times, but at the time I did not know what his riddle meant. Our Lady took three people from me: My twin sister, who was my soul. My first born son, who was my heart. And finally, my husband, who was my life. Three parts of me had to die, Floki, for me to be reborn. This, also, must happen to you."

The trek back to the little cottage was silent, until they begun up the stairs that lead to it. Hulda had not wavered as she looked forward, as if she knew of the disturbance before it happened, but Floki immediately looked up when he heard the yelling of arguing children.

The woman couldn't help but give a small, soft smile of knowing as she glanced at Floki, "Aslaug's youngest has made an impression on my daughter."

"Your daughter has made an impression on Aslaug's youngest," the man replied.

When they reached the clearing, the sight was not all that surprising but it was still alerting. Kára was seated upon the grass roof with a bow pointed at Ivar, who yelled and threatened her life while holding an axe over his head. Immediately, Floki marched over and wretched the weapon out from his hand and demanded to know what happened.

Ivar flushed as he jutted his finger at her, "she insulted me!"

Hulda looked up at the red-headed girl whose bow was now brought down, but she remained on the roof. "Kára, is this true?" The red-clad woman asked.

Kára stared at her mother like a deer in headlights. The older woman's face was more or less expressionless, but the look in her eyes was reprimanding, and the girl knew better than to remain stubborn. "Maybe," ended up being her defiant answer.

Hulda sighed through her nose and beckoned her daughter to come down from the roof. She did so reluctantly, sliding off the edge, climbing ontop of a barrel and stepping down. Her feet, like her mother's were bare, but dirty with grass stains and callaused from climbing trees. With her bow still gripped in her hand, she marched to Hulda's side with a pout.

The red woman placed a hand on the little one's shoulder, "Kára, I am disappointed in you. He is your prince, and deserves your respect."

"That's right, you grizzly sow-" With a thwack, Floki hit the back of Ivar's head. Ivar turned to him with a glare, his hand up rubbing the sore spot.

"What have I told you, Ivar? Kára is the daughter of Hulda the Red, it is you, also, who must show respect."

The boy pouted and glared at the girl who, in turn, glared and pouted at him. Out of the four, it was Hulda who found the display amusing, for she knew better out of all of them. Her eyes shifted over to her daughter, who huffed and threw her head back in exasperation before taking a step forward and being the first to extend the olive branch.

"I apologize for calling you a teat-sucking babe," Kára tried to contain her eyeroll, but did not maintain eye contact. She looked at his forehead, instead of his eyes, and Ivar took notice.

Of course, Ivar was viking, and would not accept an apology for his wounded pride. Jutting his chin, at her, he demanded his legal right. "I do not accept your apology, grœnnfótr. I demand to have revenge," he tilted his head, quite pleased with himself.

"You can not be serious," she deadpanned, and looked up at Hulda for help.

"I'll allow it," Hulda replied, which earned a look of horror from her daughter.

"Mother!"

"There will be no violence," she assured her, and then looked at Ivar. "Is that understood, little prince?"

The boy looked visibly disappointed; he wanted to maim the girl a little. Just a bit of the end of her nose, or maybe one of her green toes. He would have protest had it not been for Floki's warning look glowering down at him. Ivar nodded, and Hulda gave a soft smile at his compliance.

"You will receive a compensation, Ivar. What would you have from her?"

Ivar looked at the girl, who stood barefooted beside her mother, whose own bare tones peeked from under his robes. Kára's hair was thick and long, like the roots of the tree that framed the house, and her eyes were like seaweed piling up on the shore once the tide drew back into the ocean. Alas, if he could have anything from her, truly, it would be her legs. They were long and lean and the muscles in her calves and thighs were hard to miss. It was undoubtedly a product of her tree-climbing hobbies, which Ivar also envied her for. Unfortunately, her legs were not an option, but what she gripped in her hands in a vice was. Her bow was made of oak, likely of the same stock of the tree, and hand made. There were intricate designs along the limbs that reached to the grip, that was made of wrapped leather. It wasn't particularly impressive, and it was obviously made to be used for a child of their age, and probably for hunting. Not impressive, but it was also probably very important to her by the way she held onto it.

"I will have her bow," he said at last with a cheeky smile.

Her reaction was immediate, and exactly how Ivar had hoped it would be. She gripped her bow to her chest and looked mildly horrified as her pleading eyes looked up to her mother. "Mother, no! This is my bow!"

"You should have thought that before you opened your mouth," Hulda's tone was reprimanding, a clue to them having this conversation before.

"But I've spent a fortnight making it!" It was obvious in the desperation in the girl's voice that it was her most prized possession. She had made it with a fallen branch of this very oak tree. In the curved structure, Kára saw the limbs of a bow and was inspired to construct it in memory of her father who was a smith, carpenter, and an inventor. When she had completed it, she could feel the kiss of his breath as he whispered his approval and pride in his daughter for creating it. And now it was going into the hands of a spoiled prince.

"You could make another one," Hulda extended her hand, palm up, and waited for the bow to be placed in it.

Kára gripped harder on it, keeping it close to her chest, and then glowered at Ivar. However, her mother's gaze was burning on the top of her head, and when she met them, they were just as intimidating as they have ever been. It took great personal strength to pull the bow from her breast and put it into Hulda's palm, but as soon as it was done, Kára had took off. Her long legs lept over a boulder and her hands caught on a low-hanging branch where she swung into the woods and out of sight.

Floki made a go at trying to get to her before she had gone out of sight, but Hulda had held up a halting hand as a sign to not bother. The woman then walked up to Ivar, who sat upon a rock still, his head turned in the direction of where Kára had run off to.

"Ivar," the woman's voice brought his attention back; she was kneeling beside him and holding out the bow. He had not gotten a good look of this woman until now, and he found himself awestruck by the magic that pulsated from her aura. In a sea of burgundy, her navy blue eyes pulled him into a false sense of security. He felt safe, but at the very same time, in mortal danger. "If you take good care of this bow, little prince, you will find yourself in good fortune and much more."

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 **Before writing this series, I did a lot of research on the völvur. A Völva is a witch (plural: völvur), but the word translates to "wand wed". They were also considered priestesses to Freya, and were the midgard representatives of the goddess. They weren't ostracized like they were in Christian cultures. Being a Völva made you highly respected and people would come to you for wisdom, healing, and other things pertaining to magic and the gods, especially in times of crisis, like a war, famine, or plague, etc. The** **völvur were often travellers, moving from one estate to another, and when they arrive, they were given the seat of the head of the house, like an earl.** **They were usually elderly women, who had forsaken family and home to becoming a Völva.**

 **This is like the Seer (who was originally supposed to be a woman), in a way, but since he is a man and is a leper, he's slightly outcasted. For Hulda, she is not an old witch, which she says in this chapter. She started her journey when her husband had died, and nine months later she gave birth to her daughter, so she has a long ways to go. She has a journey she goes through in the story in order to become what she needs to be. So, yes, I am aware that generally witches in the viking age were elderly women who gave up all family ties, for those of you who want to point out that inaccuracy. Hulda is by no means as experienced as the Seer, but her character develops over time, and it involves her daughter. Additionally, though, witches weren't celibate; generally the younger ones often enchanted men into their beds, and practice sexual magics. That is what Lagertha claimed Aslaug had done with Ragnar; which I've always had a problem with, because that scene insinuates that the vikings didn't like witches as much as Christians? When it's the complete opposite.**

 **Anyway, I rambled a bit. I just wanted to clarify that for anyone who wants to know, and to show I'm not talking out of my ass about it XD I invite you all to do some research about this yourselves, because it's quite interesting, not to mention it's a healthy habit to always fact check something someone said on the internet.**

 **~CB**


	4. 3: The Man In The Wood

**Master of My Sea**

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 **reply to: HeavensWeatherHellsCompany -  
** _Nooo, ahaha. Kára is not Ragnar's possible love interest. She's 12 right now,_  
 _and Ragnar is like, nearly if not already 50._

 **Big thanks to all who had favourited and alerted! Also thanks to HeavensWeatherHellsCompany , Guest, and ReadLikeHermione for reviewing :)**

 **Want to apologize for the late update. Been a bit crazy this past few weeks and the chapter i was working on was proving to be difficult for me to write, just because I felt a lil uninspired. Also apologies for any grammatical/spelling errors, run-on sentences, and repetitive words in this chapter. I had a friend beta the previous chapters, but I didn't ask her to do this one, since she was pretty busy with school starting.**

 **Hope you enjoy!**

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 **chapter three:  
THE MAN IN THE WOOD**

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Kára's feet had taken her farther than she anticipated. It wasn't until she found herself in a clearing with a seemingly abandoned house, that she realized she was still barefooted. The soles of her feet were on fire, and she was fairly certain that she had a few cuts here and there from stepping on thorns and sharp rocks. This wasn't new, though; her feet were often the victims of such treatment. Kára didn't like boots, they made her toes squish together and left little grip for her when she climbed trees. However, she admitted that boots and shoes had their perks… for one thing, her feet wouldn't be as sore as they were now had she been wearing a pair.

The girl sat on an old chopping block so she could pull up her foot over her knee to have a better look at the blisters on her pads. It took her a few seconds to realize that there was freshly chopped wood sitting next to her, which meant that the house she stopped at was _not_ abandoned. Before she could react, the door opened, and in a quick motion she stood and turned, brandishing her worn down tagger from her belt.

Standing in the doorway, looking both curious and perplexed by the green-footed girl wielding a 5 inch dagger was none other than her King, Ragnar Lothbrok. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and his lips were chapped and bleeding. If she had not known who he was, Kára would have assumed he was a berserker, at how feral and unhinged he seemed. Alas, it was no secret that Ragnar had been slowly slipping into madness ever since his return from Paris with defeat on his shoulders.

"Have you come to kill me, little girl?" He looked amused as he examined her from foot to head. The sight of her hair under the early spring sun had nearly blinded him; it lit a fiery hue that made him immediately know who's child stood before him. There were very, very few who were born with red hair in Kattegat, and even less children. "You are Kára Ulfsdóttir, am I correct?"

 _Ulfsdóttir…_

Kára had not heard that in a long time. It was as if calling her, her father's daughter was a great shame that she may grow offense to. Or perhaps her mother was a greater name than her father's. Either way, Kára was seldom called Ulfsdóttir.

She had not sheathed her dagger, but her grip had loosened a fraction as she regarded Ragnar with a curious yet cautious stare. "You knew my father?"

"I knew him, yes," Ragnar continued to openly stare at the girl, examining her face and features, trying to place his pictures to a long distant memory that he had lost in the whirlwinds of his mind. The fate of Ulf was not an easily forgotten story by those who knew him, especially for those present during the time before Ragnar had been king. He might have not known Ulf on a personal level, but Ragnar respected him as a viking and a man. This respect grew since Ulf had joined him, Floki, Rollo and the others on their journey to the new world.

"He sailed west with us, a long time ago."

Kára knew the story as well as any danish child did; it was what made Ragnar Lothbrok a living legend, and had changed the fates of their people forever. What she did not know, however, was her father being there as well. "My mother never told me," she found herself saying out loud, opening up to how little she knew of her father. She did not even see his face, being that he died before he knew she was inside her mother's womb. "She never told me anything about him."

Ragnar saw how her arm that wielded the dagger became slacken once her guard began to fray. He took this moment to move from the archway and inch closer to her, though kept a safe enough distance not to alert her any further. She was aware of his movement, he could see that by the twitch of her knuckles around the hilt of the dagger. At least she was not stupid enough to let her guard completely down around strangers.

"What has she told you about him?" He asked, leaning against a yard away from her.

"That he was talented," she answered, a strain visible on her face as she struggled to admit the last thing. "And he killed himself."

"Is that all?"

She sent him a glare, "That is all."

The king had very few moments with Ulf himself, though he understood him more than most. He knew he was talented; a carpenter, a smith, an inventor. Many thought he was mad at the ideas he would come up with and attempt to make, but he was more gifted than most men. His fingers were magical, even when carving a piece of wood he would produce a intricate masterpiece that many would pay gold for. It was probably what drew a woman like Hulda to him. Ragnar couldn't help but wonder if his daughter was anything like the both of them, but so far what he had seen, she was vastly different. She had her mother's face, but her father's eyes, and yet she was wild like an orphan child who had been raised by wolves. Even her hair was not like Hulda's, which was rich like dark berries, yet her daughter's was more like a raging fire. Kára knew how to handle herself, which could not have been learned from her mother. Hulda was never a shieldmaiden, and ever since her daughter was born she had become a recluse. So it was fascinating how her daughter had somehow had an inborn ability to know how to properly hold a weapon, let alone have the bravery to fend for herself in the wild. Ragnar couldn't help but wonder what his ex wife would have thought of a girl like her… surely she would be intrigued and would be willing to adopt her so she could train her to be a shieldmaiden with the a prowess alike herself.

"What are you doing out here, little one? You are a league away from home," The king asked, putting their previous conversation in the past, but not forgetting it.

The question, though, seemed to light a spark under her ass once more, because she turned her body around on the block and glared at him more fiercely, as if he was the source of her problems. In a way, he was.

"I am here, because your _son_ is a prick!"

The corner of his lips twitched, aware of the answer but asked anyway, "Which one?"

"The cripple!"

Of course it was Ivar; he could deal with Ubbe, Hvitserk, or even Sigurd getting into trouble. They were typical youthful men, and still did boyish things for attention. Easy to discipline, easy to understand. But his youngest was different than the others; he could not touch him. He was more his mother's son than his own, and Ragnar was partially to blame for it. His mind wandered to the many ways that Ivar the Boneless could have tormented this girl; was she a friend to the boy he killed a few years ago? Did he steal her shoes? Did he make fun of her father? Ragnar did not wait long for an answer, as his silence invited her to speak more.

"He took my bow,"

Yes, this surprised him quite a bit, because it was probably the littlest problem Ivar could have made. It made Ragnar give a crack of a smile; there was something comforting about the fact that Ivar was normal enough to get in trouble for something a normal boy his age would get into trouble for.

"He stole your bow?"

Her face twisted as she became conflicted with herself, "No, not really. It was a price… I insulted him, and he demanded compensation."

Ragnar's brow raised a bit at her openly admitting to her own fault, which was an admirable trait. Honesty was highly valued among their people, but of recent years he had seen the steady decline of that honoured quality. Every generation, children have grown more secretive and more dishonest, valuing fame and fortune thanks to their ambitious fathers. Ragnar happened to be one of those fathers, but he would not admit to that, not now, not yet.

Wanting to test how far she would be willing to admit the truth, he probed her further, "What did you say to him?"

Kára did not know what Ragnar's relationship was with Ivar. She knew that the repercussions of her words would have been greater had the Queen been the one asking her this question, but the King? He was a man of a different mind. Kára did not know much of him, but she knew that he was a reasonable man, if not a bit off his rocker in his later years. Not to mention, it was a crime punishable if she lied right to the face of her king, a fate worse than insulting his least favourite son.

"He said that it was no wonder I looked so unruly, since I lived in a tree and had no father to discipline me," Ragnar noticed how her eyes casted down to the ground, her fingers fiddling with the leather handle of the dagger she still held. If it wasn't evident before from their previous chat, it was now blatantly obvious that the topic of a father, or a father figure, was a sensitive one to the small redhead. Her shoulders squared as he watched in fascination of her summoning up the bravery to stare back into his eyes, "So I said that it was better than being a teat-sucking babe of twelve winters."

The king could not hold back the shine of his teeth as his lips stretched into a smile. He knew that it was nothing to laugh at- he had told Aslaug many times that Ivar should have not been nursed for as long as he was. It was unnatural and would only ensure his reliance on her. Thankfully, it had ceased once Ivar turned ten years, but that was not long ago. He had hoped that no one would know of this, but it seemed to somehow reach some ears. Hopefully by rumour and not fact. Ragnar turned his head, ashamed at his own amusement and hid his grin behind a closed hand.

His eyes returned to Kára, who looked away as she also tried to hide her tiny smile. It seemed her only regret was being caught and being punished for it. The girl reminded him of Ivar in a strange way; not of what was wrong with him - his many ill behaviours that resulted in poor parenting - but what made him affable. Defiant, cheeky, headstrong, and clever. Naturally, because of this, Kára and Ivar would continue to but heads like two territorial rams.

Ragnar slid down onto the floor, and sat with his back against the trunk of the tree. He lifted his leg to rest an arm over his knee and then leaned his head back against the bark behind him. "This bow was important to you. Or else you would not have run away in despair," he stated matter of factly.

Kára found herself sliding off the chopping block and onto the ground as well, but she folded her legs with a foot lifted to rest on her thigh. Her fingers began to massage her toes and press against the bulging blisters she had on the balls of her feet. "I made it," she replied with a soft voice. "It was like my father's hands were guiding mine. It's the only thing I have that is remotely close to his."

"Your mother doesn't have any of his work?" She shook her head, and Ragnar frowned. "Why is that?"

Kára's brow furrowed as she paused in both thought and frustration, "She once told me that the last part of her died when he died, and it was when I was born that she was reborn as well. In order to become what she was destined to be, she had to forsake all from her last life."

Something in those words made Ragnar's skin ripple in goosebumps, and all hair stood on end. He pulled his head from the tree trunk and pulled up his other knee to rest his other arm. Blue orbs moved all around the clearing, from the sky, to the cottage he found himself at more often than his own home, with the company of a slave who he knew very little. It was as if he was trying to live another life that was not his; escaping to worlds vastly different than his own with the help of Yidu and her medicine.

At last his eyes rested on Kára, who had not looked up at him yet; her own gaze was still glued to the sole of her foot. "I have something that your father made," he found himself saying out of the blue. "He gave it to me when I became Earl of Kattegat."

This had brought her gaze to him, wide eyed and hopeful. She opened her mouth, then closed it for a moment, then finally asked if she could see it.

"It is back at the longhouse," he replied, and took notice to her visible disappointment.

She nodded and sunk back into her spot on the floor and went back to picking at her toes. Her mind began to wonder to questions about the man who sat in front of her. King Ragnar Lothbrok; the farmer who made himself king. He was her people's hero, his name stretching far across Norway, Denmark, and Sweden. Yet there he sat, at the base of the tree, looking twice as old as his real age, and his eyes looked more dead than his body. Kára bit her lip and looked back at the old cabin that he came from and then back at the king. "You are avoiding home," she pointed out boldly.

Ragnar had slipped into his own thoughts as well, but they had brought him to nostalgia, which proved to be both a poison and a remedy for his clouded and sick mind. When she spoke, he almost thought her voice was the whisper of his conscious,, but eventually he remembered he was not alone, so he moved his head slowly to her. "What makes you say that?"

"You are never seen in the city," She gave a slight shrug, as if it was an obvious statement. "And if this is where you are when you are not with your family, then it is because you're avoiding them."

"You sound like your mother," he leaned his head back against the tree again, his eyes darting off to the clouds.

"You've talked to her?"

"No,"

"Than how do you know I sound like her?"

Ragnar lulled his head to the side and stared at Kára with that same disconnected stare he seemed to always have. It was both penetrating in a way that he could peer into her own soul, but at the very same time they seemed disengaged from his mind, from reality. Ragnar never formally spoke to Hulda, especially not after she became Wand Wed. Between the Seer and his wife, he already had enough magical beings telling him about his fate. Though all women tended to sound the same, especially those with gifts bestowed to them by Freya.

"All women are the same," he repeated his thoughts.

Kára gave him a wooden stare, "You mean we all sound right?"

It was Ragnar's turn to give her a wooden stare as well, this time with a show of teeth as he mocked her, "Shouldn't you be on your way home?"

"I don't want to go home," she admitted, pulling up her knees to her chest.

"Then it sounds like the both of us are avoiding it."

Silence befell on them both as they stared at something unrelated to the other. Kára looked at the dirt of her toes, where the grass stains collected around her cuticles and under the nail, and Ragnar stared at the door of the little cabin, where Yidu was sleeping under some furs. She usually found him gone by the time she woke up, but where he was, wasn't far away, nor was it in Kattegat. He would always come back, if only for the medicine she provided, and a bed that wasn't his marriage.

Suddenly Ragnar heard a guttural sound coming from the girl, which made him turn at her with curiosity. A red flush graced her face as she hugged her legs closer to her stomach, then she responded pitifully, "I'm hungry."

Ivar and Floki had returned to Kattegat not long after the incident with Hulda's daughter. The trek home was silent as he rode on the back of his mentor, which made Ivar wonder if Floki was upset with him. What happened wasn't Ivar's fault, it was Kára's. She shouldn't have insulted her prince. Not to mention she had not even apologized for hitting his shoulder with her arrowhead initially. Or...Or the confusing, uninvited, chapped-lipped kiss.

By the time they reached the longhouse, Ivar had gotten himself in a sour mood, which only intensified when his stomach gave a growl indicating its emptiness. Floki silently walked into the great hall and allowed the boy to slide off his shoulders and onto a bench next to his brothers who all waited patiently for a meal to be provided. Without a word, the viking had left them and into the other room that hid behind a brown pelt.

"Where have you been all day?" Sigurd asked, eyeing his least preferred brother with a suspicious gaze.

Ivar was handed a horn of weak ale by Ubbe as he casted Sigurd a smug smile, "Floki took me to see a Völva." Once he had processed the information given to him by his mentor and finally met the woman, Ivar was all too willing to bless in the privilege of being able to talk to her, and receive something from her. The bow was still strapped to his back with the utmost of pride, and he had no intention of removing it.

"The one by the river? Hulda Rauða?" Sigurd squinted at him in disbelief.

"So you know her?" Ivar picked up his horn as he grinned at his brother. "She gifted me this bow herself. Said that if I kept good care of it… it will bring me fortune and fame."

Sigurd snorted, but Ubbe seemed more or less intrigued by the story, his eyes looking over at the bow and examined it. "It must have been made by her husband," he mused, admiring the design along the limbs.

Ivar knew that wasn't true, but the mention of a husband caused him to pause before taking a sip of his ale. He looked at Ubbe, "I saw no husband. Floki says that the völvur are Wand Wed and do not have husbands."

Hvitserk was the one to speak, "I remember her. She was married to that smith. What was his name, Ubbe?"

"Ulf," The eldest brother answered. "I remember him as well. They had a son together, did they not?"

"And a daughter," Ivar added without realizing it. All three brothers turned to him with a collectively odd look.

"I don't remember a daughter," Hvitserk sat up in his seat as he tried to think of any fleeting memory of a girl.

"She can't be much older than Ivar," Ubbe commented. "Ulf died the winter of the year that you were born."

"How did he die?" Ivar found himself asking.

"The same way Siggy died," Sigurd replied a little forcefully. "He drowned in a frozen lake."

"What are you all talking about?" Four heads turned to see that their mother had appeared from the room adjacent. Aslaug seemed fairly unfazed, but her eyes always held that glint of all knowing, much like Hulda's, but more intimidating because she _was_ their mother.

Ubbe opened his mouth, feeling some obligation in admitting their topic of choice, but his saving grace came in the form of servants coming into the longhouse with plates of steaming food. "Finally!" He called out, arms extended in happiness.

Aslaug sat down at the table across from Ivar and next to Sigurd. Floki had reappeared alongside Helga, who had been with the queen all day. The two sat on the other side, shoulder to shoulder as the food was put on the table in front of them. It was a meal fit enough for their small company, though greater than many meals served in many households. Rabbit stew was served in wooden bowls, accompanied by fresh bread, dried fruits, and at last a platter of salted pork and cheese.

"Is father joining us?" Hvitserk asked as he looked over at his mother.

Her eyes were casted downwards at her bowl of stew for a long moment, not answering out of the pain of the topic. Ragnar had not joined them in nattmal for so many nights, that Aslaug had lost hope in waiting for him to sit with the family and eat with them. She gave a tight-lip smile at her son before stating simply, "I do not know."

Floki shared a look with Helga, but said nothing as he shoveled his bread into the stew and shoved it into his mouth. It was true, Ragnar had become not the man that he knew, and after the events of Paris, he did not know if he wanted to learn of this new Ragnar. No, that was a lie, Floki loved his friend dearly, as much as anyone, but he could not erase the past and the rift that has been made in their friendship. Helga knew better than anyone what her husband's true feelings were; she knew he mourned for what he and Ragnar used to be. Many times had their love for each other has been tested by their enemies, but in the end it was their own prides and mistakes that tested their bonds greater than any other threat.

As if the wind had carried his name through the crack of the door and called out to him, Ragnar Lothbrok, himself, appeared at the entrance. The door opened with a kick and a bang, and the tall figure entered with something propped on his shoulders. All of their collective stares were ones of surprise, but for some it was mixed with other emotions. For Aslaug it was both confusion and resentment; for Floki it was intense curiosity; for Ivar it was shock, not because of his father, but because of who he was carrying on his back.

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 **Well, i know not much didn't happen this chapter, but like I said, it's a slow burn, and since this is my first Vikings fic, I wanted to get a feel how to write some of the main characters outside of Floki and Ivar. I hope I did Ragnar some justice, since during this time he's not himself. Not to mention this meeting with Kára and him was pretty important, because Ragnar plays a pretty vital role in both her and Hulda's life, especially in the future.**

 **So for those of you who don't know, most people back then only had two means a deal. In viking/northern culture, they called dinner nattmal and they called breakfast dagmal. I'm trying to use the correct words for specific things, just to add an element of realism, I suppose? Hope that makes sense, haha.**

 **Anyway, hope it was a good chapter for you guys, and I'll see you in the next chapter. Reviews, as always, greatly appreciated!**

 **~CB**


	5. 4: The Optic Battle

**Master of My Sea**

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 **So, before I begin, I want to address two reviews regarding how I should have put a translation to English over the Icelandic dialog in the prologue. Already messaged one person, but unfortunately the other is a Guest so I can't. I've also updated the prologue to explain this in the author's notes so people know before reading.**

 **Addressing the Icelandic and no translation in the prologue:**

 **I didn't include the translations on purpose. There was intent on it. It sets the tone, and gives and element of realism. You're not supposed to know who/what the man is or who/what the woman is when you initially start reading. I like to foreshadow and throw in a bit of mystery in my stories, because I'm not a fan of transparency, it makes a story boring. But I don't like to make things over complicated, because I don't want to make readers confused throughout the entire story, which is my biggest pet peeve with a tv show or a movie. If I wanted you to know what they said, I wouldn't have put it in Icelandic in the first place. If someone who reads my fic DOES understand Icelandic, that's completely fine, but I know most won't. Eventually, the prologue will be addressed again, but not for a while.**

 **Hope that clears that up!**

 **Huge thanks for the reviews, the alerts and favourites, they're all greatly appreciated! Don't want to leave the Author's Note super long up here, so everything else I need to say will be at the bottom. Enjoy!**

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 **chapter four:  
** **THE OPTIC BATTLE**

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Aslaug watched with intense scrutiny as her estranged husband walked into the hall with a child on his back. Once the king reached the table, the girl slid off him and on her feet in a swift movement, then casted a quick glance around the table before lingering on her son, Ivar, and then finally landing on Floki with a tight lipped smile. The queen's eyes narrowed at the girl before moving her leer towards Ragnar.

"You've brought a guest to our table," she stated, but it came out as an accusation, one that she was not thrilled about. Ragnar had been not himself and he had been even less interested in their marriage ever since Ivar was born (However, it became worse after the incident with Siggy), which made everything he did questionable. Ever since he returned from Paris, he had been a complete stranger, and not to mention Aslaug was aware of the absence of her exotic slave she had bought months ago. The slave's relationship with the King of the Danes was also not lost on Aslaug. However, Ragnar knew better enough not to bring his lovers or other unwanted company to the table. For him to bring what appeared to be an orphan child into their home made Aslaug suspicious and on edge, especially since the appearance of this girl unnerved her in a way she could not explain. Her familiar yet unfamiliar face put a bad taste in the Queen's mouth, like a bitter memory that she had tried to suppress for years emerging from the depths of her mind.

"I did," Ragnar looked at his wife with a wide-eyed challenging look that seemed so much more daunting now that there was no affinity in it.

Floki moved his eyes from his long lost friend and then rested on the girl who seemed to have moved her glare back at Ivar, who in turn, glared back. The boy's grip tightened over the string that slung over his shoulder, which pulled the limbs of the bow closer to his body.

"Kára, shouldn't you be home with your mother?" Floki asks the girl, low enough to make this exchange between them both, but Aslaug's keen ear heard every word.

"You know this girl, Floki?" The woman ask, her sharp eyes moved from her husband down the table to the shipwright.

Floki, looking like he had been caught when his fingers in the honey pot, turned to the queen and gave a brief nod. "I do," he said, his eyes moving from Aslaug to Ivar. The air was thick with awkwardness, one that not even Helga was immune to. The woman sat nervously next to her husband, playing with the hem of her sleeves, watching Floki intently, waiting with baited breath for his full response.

Deciding to play it safe, Floki merely replied with the truth, but not the entire truth. "She is the daughter of a friend."

"Her name is Kára Ulfsdóttir," Ragnar opened his mouth without care, and then moved to the head of the table. Floki sighed through his mouth and shut his eyes at his friend's brazen admission.

Ragnar's fingers brushed against the back of Kára's shoulder, indicating for her to follow him. She did so reluctantly, as well as regretting her decision to allow Ragnar invite her to supe with him. Every pair of eyes followed her as she tailed the king to the head of the table.

Aslaug's eyes seemed to shift from one of suspicion to one of genuine surprise and slight fear, but only for a second. Her eyes followed the girl acutely; the closer the girl came to passing by her, the more the candlelight glowed against her features and it at last dawned on the queen by the vibrancy of the girl's hair, who she was.

A servant had pulled a chair up to the head of the table for Ragnar to sit, but Kára had remained just behind his shoulder in the light of the Queen's open stare.

"You are… Hulda's child?" Aslaug asked out loud, her words coming out unsure of her eyes and ears.

The girl opened her mouth, but it was Ragnar who had answered for her. "Yes," he rolled his head to rear his gaze back to his wife. "Is that a problem, wife of mine?"

Kára's eyes flickered to Ragnar and then to Aslaug who seemed to be avoiding something; like the faces of the past that now turned their scrutinizing gaze in her direction. Even the sons of Ragnar seemed utterly confused and tense, sitting there at the table with spoons halfway to their lips, and their collection of blue orbs darting between each parent. Floki and Helga merely remained at the side lines, silent and contemplating swallowing their meals whole and dashing out of the Longhouse.

Both king and queen were tangled in a silent duel; their eyes sharp and blue, but under the hearth light, they both danced with yellow sparks. Aslaug was the first to pull away to look at Kára, her eyes turning kind and a smile gracing her face, but it seemed almost forced in a way that did not seem characteristic to Aslaug.

"You are most welcome at our table, Kára Ulfsdóttir."

Kára bowed her head, "Thank you, my queen."

Satisfied, Ragnar turned to his right, and told his sons to move over, they obliged with some hesitance, especially from Ivar. Once the move was made, Kára eased herself in the spot next to Ragnar, across from Aslaug and next to Ivar. Before she could even help herself to the food, it was the king who served her plate, giving her a generous portion of stew into her bowl before he served himself. This action, of course, had not gone unnoticed by the members of his family and friends who sat beside him, but for Kára it just seemed unnecessary. She did not need a parental figure to serve her food, especially one that was not her father.

"Kára, I believe you have not met my sons," the king began, as he then moved to his plate. "Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd. Ivar," he paused and looked at the son in question. "You already know."

Aslaug had not touched her plate since the arrival of Ragnar, but it was now that she felt her nails sink into a bread roll, while imagining it was something else. Her eyes lifted up from the torn loaf and onto her youngest son and the girl who sat beside him. "You've two met before?"

"Floki took me to see the Red Woman," Ivar answered without raising his eyes from his stew.

"She gave him that bow!" Hvitserk was one to speak after, motioning over to the weapon that his brother still carried. The poor middle child was oblivious to the topic being the most awkward of them all, for only four who sat at the table knew the truth of what conspired behind it, and those four knew better than to speak of the actual reason how Ivar obtained it. It would spare humiliation for Ivar, as well as possible consequences for Kára by the hands of Queen Aslaug.

Kára's knuckles went white as it gripped the horn of warm mead in her hand; she had to hold back every muscle in her body, including her tongue, from reacting or saying anything about it. It wasn't her house, it wasn't her family, and to top it all off, she was seated next to a king, his queen, his sons, and old, respected friends. Out of all who sat at this cursed table, it was Floki and Helga who she was more familiar with. The couple had remained friends to Hulda, while the rest of the village accepted her isolation and only came to her in times of need and not for social visits. Instinctively, Kára looked up at the shipwright for some kind of help, if he could provide anything.

"That was very kind of her," Aslaug commented through her teeth.

"It is a special gift," Floki finally spoke, having caught Kára's pleading gaze. "Though, the table is no place for weapons."

"But I was told to keep it safe," Ivar protested, his fingers curling around his prize. Kára, of course, noticed this and also noted his words with curiosity.

"Floki is right," Aslaug added sweetly, looking at her son adoringly. "It would be just as safe in your room."

Ivar rolled his eyes in defeat, but did not protest any longer. He rolled his head under the string and gave the bow to an awaiting servant, who promptly took it to the boy's room. Once it was gone, he planted his elbows on the table and resumed consuming what was on his plate. Beside him, Kára's muscles remained tense, but at least her fists had become loosened and she was willing to open her mouth to shove food inside it without making some comment about Ivar.

Silence unfolded amongst the company, save for the sounds of slurps, and wooden plates and bowls hitting the table. Kára found comfort in this, since she had grown tired of optical challenges across tables and unheard conversations spoken through glance, and glares. It seemed that was where most of the unbearable tension had truly stemmed from. With everyone so engrossed in their food, it was evident that all those at the table were aware of how uncomfortable they all were at that moment.

The quiet did not last forever, though; Aslaug had finished her bowl of stew and found herself looking at the girl across from her, allowing her mind to reel on about how much Kára looked like her. Except for her eyes… she had her father's eyes, if the queen could recall. What sat across from her was an opportunity to open up old wounds, or peer into friendship she once had a decade ago. Either way, it would be painful, but there would be more harm allowing sore wounds to fester.

"How's your mother, Kára?"

The girl had paused, caught off guard by the sudden talking as well as it being addressed to her. Slowly, she swallowed the potato in her mouth before she answered, "She is well."

"That is good."

The redhead licked her bottom lip and reached for her horn of mead, but before she could take a sip, she found herself asking: "Queen Aslaug, I hope you don't mind me asking: how do you know my mother?"

The vibe shifted a bit in the Longhouse following that question; eyes now raised from their food and found themselves darting between faces once more. Even Ivar peaked over his bread to look at his mother, his attention showing his interest in the answer as well.

Aslaug smiled at the girl's innocent question, "We were very close, when we were girls," she answered, and found herself staring at her fingers. "It was me, Hulda, and her sister, Sigrún. Their mother was my foster mother, so I lived with them as if they were my sisters. My parents died before I knew them properly, so they were all the family I had and knew. But, we grew older and were lead to seperate paths. But fates did not keep us apart for long, for when I came to Kattegat, pregnant with Ubbe, I was reunited with Hulda."

Kára had listened intently, having forgotten that she and Aslaug weren't alone at the table. It wasn't often that Kára heard stories of her mother's past, especially since Hulda refused to talk about it. Even from Ragnar, what he knew about Ulf, albeit little, earned her undivided attention. "Mother never told me that," Kára found herself saying out loud. "She's never talked about her sister, or you, or… anyone."

Ivar couldn't help himself but to look at the girl sitting next to him with some interest. He, himself, didn't know this tidbit about his mother's past either. He doubted that his brothers knew, since it was Ivar who spent the most time with Aslaug. He's heard stories of his grandparents, and the game of wits that she and Ragnar played the day they've met, but she had never talked about her life as a foster child, or how she was once friends with a witch. It did surprise him that his brothers knew of Hulda before him, but perhaps it was because they were older than him, and well, were not bound to the Longhouse and the hip of their mother. In light of this new information, though, it seemed that Kára was no different to Ivar in that regard. She was bound to that house in the woods, bound to the hip of her mother, and completely, utterly isolated from everyone. At least Ivar had his brothers, had servants, had friends like Floki, and even had a father. Kára had no one other than Hulda. The mention of the Red Woman's sister was also curious, but judging on how his mother had stated she was only reunited with Hulda meant that something happened with the other.

"What happened to Sigrún?" Ivar asked suddenly.

Aslaug's attention went from Kára to her son, and opened her mouth to speak, but Ragnar had interrupted crudely. The king made a loud slurping noise as he brought the bowl to his lips and drained the gravy and broth, and then put down the bowl before he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Everyone looked at him, though he didn't seem to notice until he reached across the table to snag a piece of cheese from the platter, blinking in surprise once he realized everyone's eyes were on him. Ragnar pulled back and rested back in his chair, content on eating his cheese and zoning out once more.

Aslaug returned her attention back to Ivar, ignoring the interruption and putting on a sad smile. "She died in battle a long time ago," was her simple answer. "That was all I was told."

"At least she died an honourable death," Ubbe spoke his opinion, earning a small smile from his mother, and a side glance from the redheaded girl. "Was she a shieldmaiden, like Lagertha?"

Kára, still silent, moved her head from Ubbe towards the queen, awaiting the answer. The woman nodded, "She was, and a very exceptional one. When we were girls, she defended Hulda and I from a dangerous man who wished to do monstrous things to us." Aslaug took a moment to cast her eyes to her fiddling fingers. "Unfortunately, Sigrún died much too young. I believe she must have been just a few years older than you, Ubbe."

"Do you think she was reincarnated as a valkyrie?" Finally Kára had spoke, and her question had caused everyone to pause what they ate and looked expectedly at Aslaug. Ragnar instead kept a leveled, dilated stare at Kára as she spoke these words. His eyes seemed to glaze over as he drifted off to a distant memory, only to be snapped back into reality when his wife began to speak.

"Well," Aslaug placed her arms crossed in front of her as she bowed her head to look at the little one. "That is a question only the gods could answer. If there is anyone on midgard that would know, it would be your mother."

The redhead gave a hard roll of her eyes, "My mother won't tell me shit."

There was a chorus of sniggers across the table due to the girl's foul language, all except for the older women of the table. Helga held her hand over her mouth, but Aslaug seemed less than amused by the vulgar tongue. Alas, Ivar was the who laughed the loudest, and seeing a smile on her youngest face was enough for the Queen not to fuss over it. Well, that, and she could not berate a daughter of Hulda, knowing the possible ramifications.

 _ **x x x**_

Aslaug remained in the great hall that night, sitting upon her throne and holding a horn of mead in her hand. Her eyes stared unblinkingly into the hearth before her, her ears only paying attention to the crackles of the wood. She did not hear Ragnar sit next to her in his own throne, but it didn't startle her, nor was she unaware of his presence. After nattmal that night, the children had remained at the table playing tafl until one by one they began to tire. Once Ubbe had left to his shared bed with his brothers, the only two that were left were Ivar and Kára, who stubbornly played until there was a loser. They both dozed off on the table before one was declared.

Once their eyes flickered closed, Ragnar pulled himself off from his spot on the floor next to the hearth and gently picked up Ivar, which had surprised Aslaug. Her husband rarely touched their youngest son, possibly out of guilt or disgust for what he was, what he was born to be, all because Ragnar did not heed her warning that night they conceived him. His efforts of trying to be a father towards Ivar were a vain attempt in moulding the boy into something that Ragnar wanted him to be, but the child was incapable of being. The simple gesture of lifting him was innocent and normal, despite Ivar being larger than he was even a year ago. Aslaug felt a ghost of a smile graced her lips as she observed this rare and sweet sight, only for it to disappear the moment that Ragnar used his other arm to scoop up the girl as well by the waist, and held her high enough that her bare feet did not touch the floor. Ragnar then carried the two into Ivar's room behind the fur barrier.

"Why did you bring her here, Ragnar?" Aslaug's voice was almost a whisper, enough for it to be almost unnoticeable, but the viking heard it over the sound of the crackling fire.

"She was hungry," his voice match hers in volume, but was coarser.

The woman scoffed and tore her head away from the fire to look at her husband, "You did it on purpose."

Ragnar didn't look at her, but instead at his dirty finger nails. He had a little smile on his bearded face, then let out a soft laugh. "Not everything I do, is to annoy you, wife of mine. Besides," he rolled his head to finally meet her fiery gaze. "You seemed to like her."

Aslaug curled her lip and looked away from Ragnar, not willing to respond to his patronizing. Her fingers curled around the horn in her hand, as well as into the wood of the arm rest. The fire continued to dance in front of her, but Aslaug's attention was no longer on the orange flames, now that it reminded her of the girl in question. Kára was just a child - she probably hadn't bled yet - but still, when Aslaug looks at her all she sees is a ghost. A vengeful ghost in flesh and bone, sent here by the witch her birthed her in a ceremony of fire, blood and shadow.

"And our son seems to like her as well."

This statement was enough for Aslaug to spring back to life and whip her head to him, eyes lit, heart fluttering. Ragnar sat there, smug and nonchalant all at once, lounging in his throne as if it was a pile of furs and feather pillows. This man was as manipulative and cunning as a snake, and knew every word to get under her skin. His eyes may speak of the madness leaking from his mind, but this hollow body of Ragnar Lothbrok still had his tongue and mouth.

"Which son?" She dreaded the answer before he spoke the name.

"Ivar," he stated transparently. "He fights with her, but I've noticed how he looked at her while they played. He is curious of her, and one day that curiosity will turn into something else."

"You don't know my son, like I do, Ragnar….He is just a boy, and he has no interest-"

"He is a man now, Aslaug. I know men more than you know your son. He will want another woman in his life that is not his mother, and you will have to live with that," he stood up from his throne and began to walk towards the exit of the Longhouse. His footsteps were sluggish but, his long strides carried him to the entrance within seconds.

Aslaug sat up from her throne, "Where are you going?"

Ragnar stopped at the doorway, but said nothing. His head was turned just enough for the hearth fire to light up the profile of his face, and the frown he wore under his mustachio. With silence the only answer he gave her, the King of Kattegat walked out of the house and into the night. Aslaug gripped her horn in a vice before flinging into the fire out of anger and frustration.

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 **My favourite part about this episode was the Ragnar and Aslaug bit at the end. The actual dinner scene was painful for me to write, because of how awkward it was.**

 **I also noticed that my setting/time dividers poofed upon publishing in the last chapters, which it look like i time skip immediately after one scene ends, which wasn't my intent. I did put three asterisks to divide those parts, but they disappeared when i copied and pasted -long sigh-.**

 **Anyway, Chapter five is turning to be a bit long. I might divide it, but I'll warn you there isn't much Ivar/Kara in it, but there is a lot of conversation between certain characters, and reveals who Ragnar's "possible" is. Like I said, this is a slow burn, but I promise it's worth it!**

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **~CB**


	6. 5: The Beat Of A Drum

**Master of My Sea**

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 **It's been a long time, I'm sorry! Almost a month, or so. Reasons for this is that this chapter and chapter six are both really long, and work for me irl has doubled and become more stressful, which drains any inspiration. Because of that, you might find my writing to lack any soul in it in these next couple of chapters, and for that I apologize.**

 **So this chapter doesn't have a lot of Ivar/Kara in it; it's sort of an in between chapter, but it's not a chapter to skip or skim. Plus, we get to meet Bjorn, and more Ragnar time :3 Next chapter I promise you has Ivar in it.**

 **Many thanks to those who reviewed, favourited, and alerted 3**

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 **chapter five:  
THE BEAT OF A DRUM**

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 _The sound of a beating drum thumped in her ear in the rhythm of her frantic heartbeat. That's all she could hear, aside from her heavy breathing echoing in her mind. Her head laid back against the damp grass, her hair undone from the braid long ago and was now fanned out against the dark grass. Her scalp was crimson from blood, not all her own, and it had fell down passed her brow and spilled into the whites of her eyes._

 _The sky was clear, with only the sun glaring directly above her face and setting her skin on fire. Coupled with the coolness of the blood soaked grass beneath her, it felt like she hung between Niflheim and Muspelheim, suspended between life and death. She closed her eyes for a second, but it felt long enough for the feeling in her muscles to come back to life. Sounds and motions hit her all at once, and the adrenaline flowed in her veins with a renown vigour. Fingers curled around the grip of what remained of her spear, then she pulled her legs up to her chest and with a fluid motion she flipped onto her feet with both grace and her resurrected might. With her sword long gone, she opted to pull out the dagger strapped to her ankle and immediately looked around the hills of the battlefield. Bodies in boiled leather, chain mail, and iron armour and helms were tangled together in the heat of slaughter, all in the name of victory or Valhalla._

 _Her eyes scanned through the faces of both men and women; brothers in arms, and shield sisters alike, until her gaze landed on a pair of bright, blue eyes, staring right back at her from a field away._

Ivar had slowly woke from the sound of mumbling and fast breathing that wasn't his own. Blinking in the dark, he rolled to the very edge of his cot to see the form of a girl tangled in furs on the floor frantically twitching and moving around in her sleep. It took a second or two for the boy's sleep-fogged mind to register that the girl was Kára. Instantly he became annoyed both by her being here, in his room, as well as her disturbing his sleep. However, when her face rolled out from the furs, he could plainly see the furrowed brow and snarl on her face. Ivar's annoyance was quick to turn to that of curiosity, wondering at what she could possibly be dreaming about. Ivar leaned over the bed to get a better look at her, and noticed her fingers twitching and curling into her palm. Her knuckles clenched and unclenched, followed by violent twitches of her shoulder. All of a sudden, her legs jolted and she launched herself from the floor and collided her forehead with Ivar's.

A duet of groans filled the void of silence in the night, both of the preteens rolled around in their furs in pain, clutching the spot between their eyes.

"What in Odin's name were you doing? Trying to kiss me in my sleep?" Kára whispered harshly, keeping her eyes tightly closed and her fingers rubbing the spot where his head hit hers.

Ivar spat, "What were you doing? You were moving around in your sleep, and mumbling like a mad woman." He pouted in his cot, palm pressed against his forehead and glaring into the dark with his annoyance returning in full swing.

"I was having a nightmare," she replied, ripping her hand away from her head and pulling herself up from the floor to glare at him. "Why were you so close to my face in the first place?"

Ivar rolled onto his side so he could look at her through the darkness. There was no light to help him, but his eyes were already adjusted and he could see her pale, dirty face just fine, but not enough to see the red mark his forehead imprinted on her own. He avoided her question, and continued with his own, "What were you having a nightmare about? Taking a bath? Calling out of a tree?"

Kára lifted herself so that she was sitting on her legs and rubbing the dulling soreness of her head, "Why do you care, Ivar?"

"I don't," he replied, a bit softer than he intended to.

Kára turned to look at him with a tired expression, her brows furrowed and lips curled into a frown, "Of course you don't; you don't care about anything, do you?"

It was Ivar's turn to furrow his brow and curl his lips into a frown, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means exactly how it sounds. You do not care about anyone else but yourself."

"You do not know me, and I do not know you. There is no reason for me to care for a stranger, especially one as obnoxious as you are," Ivar found himself sitting up with his hands to his sides. His fingers curled into his palms, trying to hold back the impulse from raising his fist to her. He knew it would only meet air, since she had the advantage of being able to dodge it. He opted for something he had the better hand at, and it was wounding her verbally. If Kára chose to strike him out of anger, he knew that he was able to hold his own until his mother or brothers came to pull her off. She would know better as well, since this was his territory and her empty threats would not work here. "That is why no one will care for you, Ulfsdóttir. You are annoying, ugly, filthy, and no one even knew you existed up until this moment. You are nobody, and I am a prince - a son of Ragnar Lothbrok and Aslaug Sigurdsdóttir. If you've got a good reason for me to care about you, then by all means, share it."

It was true, his words had done it's duty and stung Kára's greatest insecurities, but not as much as he would like. The girl knew Ivar to be needlessly cruel, for reasons she could only assume to be how he was born and, to whom he was born to. Though, because of this, it all seemed… predictable. Every instinct in her muscles told her to run at him and push him, slap him, or give him a black eye to put him in his place. He might be a prince, but he was as weak as the day he was born, and Kára would love nothing less than to remind him of that. The true hierarchy between them was not that of their class, but of their bodies. Kára was shamelessly superior to him and in any other instances, she would live longer than him. Even in nature, animals that were born with deformities barely lived to see an entire season before they were taken by nature itself. Ivar would have been no different had he been born in any other family. That was the sad truth of their world that they lived in.

She could have said this and be just as cruel as Ivar was with his tongue, but when Kára got up to her feet and squared her shoulders, she suddenly felt something in her chest that made her stop. It was the sight of him, all defiant and bound in his cot, his legs tied together indefinitely. If he were to stand, he would surely be taller than her, and for some reason that realization had brought Kára to pity him, but not in the way most pitied him. Others would look at him like an injured puppy and feel sorry for the dear boy for simply being born the way he was. However, that wasn't what Kára pitied him for. She pitied him for all the potential he could have been, but ended up being a colossal disappointment. Instead of becoming stronger because of his legs, he had turned bitter and angry, and did nothing to improve himself. She pitied him not for what he was, but what he could have been, and won't be.

Kára let out a steady sigh, her face dropped to something neutral that Ivar could not read. "I cannot believe I had wanted to be your friend," this statement was directed at herself, more than anything. She did not fear Ivar like the other children, but was always curious about him. After the other day on the hill, he brought her some amusement. That, and his lips were soft. It was enough to make an impression on her, and being a child with no friends her own age, she wanted to meet him again. However, she she was given that opportunity, she quickly learned why Ivar the Boneless didn't have friends his own age as well.

Shaking her head, she focused on the crippled boy in front of her, "You are not worth it." Her heel turned as she made her way towards the exit, and Ivar, both caught off guard by her words and her departure, stumbled to ask her where she thought she was going.

"Home," she said, pulling back the furs and mesh that separated the bedroom from the room adjacent. Kára gave him a final look before adding one last thing before her departure. "I would say it was nice knowing you, Ivar, but I am not one to lie. Goodbye."

She had gone without giving him the opportunity to breathe the last word. This had frustrated him so much that he picked up the nearest object - a wooden mug - and flung it against the door frame.

With a head vibrating with a headache, Kára had walked on her swift, still bare feet right out of the Great Hall. She hadn't the time to assess her surroundings, if she had, she would have seen the Queen linger on the other side of the longhouse where the fabric divider separated the Hall from her private quarters. Aslaug's sharp stare followed Kára's body fluidly until she left into the night. Her gaze whipped back to where she heard the sound of a wooden cup chip off the wall and bounce off. Ragnar's words echoed in her mind annoyingly, but after what she had heard, she grew in satisfaction and assurance that what he said would not ring true.

 **x x A FORTNIGHT LATER x x**

Hulda sighed irritably as she examined the legs of her daughter's trousers. On top of them becoming frayed at the hems, they were also rising higher and higher up her calve. It was only a year ago that they had been sewed to fit the girl's long legs, however it seemed like she had grew five more inches over the span of a few months. Her eyes landed on the girl's feet, that were exceptionally dirty as well. The bottoms were practically black, and inbetween her toes were grass stains that darkened over time. Her toenails were even worse.

When the woman raised her eyes to meet the unsuspecting face of her daughter, Kára paused with a spoon halfway to her lips. Her eyebrow twitched from her mother's unimpressed stare, and she shifted in her spot uncomfortably.

"What?"

"You need a bath," Hulda stated flatly.

Kára did not skip a beat to react. Her spoon dropped into her porridge with a plop and splash, and the table justled as she pulled her legs from under it and high-tailed it towards the exit of the house in one swift movement.

Hulda was quicker to react, having been used to this reaction from Kára since she had been able to walk. There was an irrational fear that her daughter had with water, especially in natural bodies of it. Hulda was lucky to get her in the river for a bath once in a moon, but now that she was blossoming to a woman, this bad habit needed to change. Kára had not bled yet, but once that happens, her hygiene would get worse if she continued to avoid the water. Hulda's long arms had slung around the girl's waist and pulled her close to her body.

Kára flailed about fruitlessly, but her mother had a surprisingly strong grip for a woman who does little to gain tone and muscle. Hulda held on her with difficulty, though, since her daughter was growing at a rapid pace, and her hunting and climbing activities had made her lithe little body strong. Still, Hulda was her mother, so she had the upper hand at knowing that Kára would not fight to the point of physical injury. Lifting her up was like holding a wiggling cat that was trying to get away from human affection.

It took some time, and an immense amount of effort, but Hulda had managed to drag Kára to the riverbed, strip her bare and tossed her into the water. Kára flailed helplessly, clutching on a rock that bordered the river.

"Are you crazy, lady?! I could have drowned!" Kára shouted, bracing her body on the edge, while her legs floated unceremoniously behind her. Hulda had ignored her as she, too, stripped out of her red robes and gowns and stepped into the water gracefully.

"The water does not even reach your chin," the red woman assured her daughter, but that did nothing to slacken the grip that Kára had on the rock. Sighing, Hulda swam to her and continued her routine of bathing her daughter while she braced herself on the side of something for dear life. Hulda pulled out a comb and attempted the miracle of detangling her daughter's hair.

Through the growls and yelps of the young girl, Hulda glanced up at her pained, paling face before speaking. "You know, one day you must get over this fear of yours. What would you do if you are to sail off to England or Paris to raid?"

"I'll fly there," she blurted in determination, which made Hulda snort.

"You'll fly there? How?"

'I'll become an inventor, like father, and make a pair of wings- Ow!" she hissed at the sharp jerk of the comb going through a tight knot.

Smirking, Hulda humoured her daughter, "Then you'll be able to fly over the walls of Paris, like a Valkyrie!"

"Exactly-Ow! You're doing this on purpose," Kára wiggled furiously away from her mother's fingers.

"It is your fault that your hair is as tangled as it is - you never brush it, you never braid it. It is like detangling a rat's nest," Hulda had half a mind of chopping it all off out of sheer frustration.

Silence befell them, save for the sound of the wind blowing in the leaves and water splashing against the river rocks. Every once in awhile there was a wince, a groan and a yelp as Hulda did her best with the comb. During this moment, Kára had let her mind wander to the dinner she had with the Ragnarssons, and what she had learned from Queen Aslaug.

"Why didn't you tell me that aunt Sigrún died in battle?"

Hulda paused for a moment at the question. Her eyes defocused for a moment before resuming combing out the knots in Kára's hair.

"Who told you that?"

"Queen Aslaug,"

"When did you talk with the Queen?"

"Stop changing the subject,"

Hulda sighed through her nose, and watched her fingers tug at the ends to free the girl's hair from the tangles. "The past is painful, so I do not look back at it," was her answer, an answer that Kára had predicted, but wasn't satisfied with. "What else did Aslaug tell you?"

Kára adjusted herself on the rock and bit her lip in thought. "She told me that she, Sigrún, and you all grew up with each other like sisters, and that aunt Sigrún saved the two of you from a man."

A ghost of a smile appeared on Hulda's pale face; it was a mixture of nostalgia and sadness. "Sigrún picked up a spear and threw it right into the man's chest," she recollected that moment. "We were fourteen summers old."

Silence befell on them once again. Kára didn't wish to bring up any more painful memories for her mother, so she allowed the sounds of nature fill the quiet space.

Hulda had eventually managed, miraculously, to detangle the red tresses and pulled away. "You never told me how you met the Queen," the older woman brought back the previous question.

"I was having dinner at the Longhouse with the King and his family," Kára answered, keeping information limited. She didn't want to mention meeting Ragnar in the forest that day she fled home.

Hulda raised an eyebrow at that, seeing what happened the other week with Ivar, for Kára to willingly have dinner with the Royal family was surprising. "How did that go?"

Kára glared into the rock face at the memory of that night, especially when she woke up smacking her forehead against Ivar's. "I don't want to talk about it."

 **X X X**

The market had grown ever since Ragnar and his men had left to conquer Paris. Many foreign merchants had settled around the border of Kattegat, offering exotic silks and fabrics, new embroidery, and beautifully intricate jewellery. For herbs and new crops, the Market flourished most, bringing in new flavours and spices that most Northmen have never even heard of. Naturally, this setting brought in many bodies filing through each other, sometimes those with pilfering fingers and ill intent. Hulda did not wish to be one of the many bodies that wove with each other, not that she did not trust strangers, but because crowds were not a welcome feeling for her. She had spent many years isolated from the populace that she had forgot what it felt like to be one with a moving crowd of humans. However, she had a growing child and that required new fabric to make new clothes. Typically, she would pay Helga to do this for her, but this time...she felt inclined to go herself.

It felt unworldly walking side by side with her mother in the most crowded place of all of Kattegat. Kára stole a glance at her mother, draped in her thick maroon colored robes with the hood pulled loosely over her head. That did nothing to guise who she was, because eyes were casted in their direction as they walked side by side down the middle of the walkway. Some even pushed away to give them more space to walk through. This feeling was extremely foreign to Kára; it made her feel like royalty, but she was pretty sure that not even the Ragnarssons were given this kind of treatment in public. When she came to the market alone, she was shoved and pushed out of the way, since she appeared to just be another orphan that piled up in the port city.

A Völva entering a dwelling was a rare and honoured event. However, those who knew of Hulda knew that she was not far away from Kattegat, and those who lived in the port city as long as it's origin, knew that she had resided in the city once upon a time. Foreigners only followed by example upon seeing the locals reactions to the curious woman in red, and listened keenly to the whispers their customers shared amongst each other. It had taken the light off of Ragnar, who had arrived at the marketplace a while ago alongside his son, Bjorn.

The king leaned against a barrel of mead as his son stood tall next to him. Bjorn had been talking about the Berserker who he had fought during his isolated winter, while fiddling with the ring on his finger. Ragnar had only half listened, not out of disinterest, but simply because his mind was still foggy from the night prior when Yidu had given him his medicine. In his own hand he fiddled with the pit of peach he had gotten from one of the foreign vendors. His nails dug into the grooves while trying his hardest to pull his mind from slipping into fake images to focus Bjorn's words.

Ragnar found his eyes moving on their own accord, shifting from the ground and landing on the duo that cut through the crowd of the market. The blood-orange braid draped over her shoulder with wisps of red hair framing around her doll-like face, that slowly began to shift into a sharper, darker, and older appearance. War paint coated her eyes and blood spilled from her scalp down her eyes. With the spear clutched in her hand and a shield in another, she walked with a gait that made her appear larger and leather.

Ragnar felt the air leave his lungs and his lips parted as if to gasp for a breath. The sound of a drum beating to the rhythm of his heart thundered in his mind.

"Father?" Bjorn placed a hand on his shoulder.

Ragnar blinked rapidly, the image had left him the moment he tore his eyes away and back on the floor. He pulled his hand up to his eyes and pressed his palm into them, and returned his eyes to Kára and her mother. The child contrasted what she looked before; clad in a dusty blue dress and brown apron, a clean face, and her hair visibly damp but locked into the long plait that rested on her shoulder. Hulda looked less innocent and more transcendental in her flowing red robes and hood, with only her lovely pale face and slender arms peaking through the fabrics.

Bjorn reacted accordingly and turned around to see what his father was staring at. The muscles in his face tensed before they relaxed when he saw who it was; while he had not seen her since he was a boy, there was an immediate recognition and shock at seeing her in a public setting.

As if their gaze made a physical touch, Hulda had turned in their direction and immediately caught the wild eyes of King Ragnar. Like a child being caught doing something naughty, Ragnar had the urge to pull his gaze away, but found himself trying to keep his eyes up and not shying away. The moment her dark orbs had met his bright ones, it felt like she had stepped into his mind and shamefully tisked at the state of it. That feeling was unlike what ever he felt with the Seer, simply because she had eyes like the sea; deep, foreboding, and unforgiving during times. He had not realized she had approached him until his son spoke.

"Hulda - it has been a long time since I last saw you," Bjorn offered no smile, but the softness of his features were friendly enough. There was no smiling for the eldest son of Ragnar after what he had endured in the wilderness during the winter, and especially now that he knew that there was someone trying to kill him. The last time Bjorn had seen the Red Woman, she was a happily married with a son who was the same age as him, but when he returned to Kattegat with his mother to aide his father to reclaim the city, Hulda and Ulf's son was not with them.

Ragnar nearly curled into himself as the witch approached him and Bjorn. Her eyes had not left him until her feet stopped, and she gently pulled her chin to the direction of the taller Lothbrok. Her smiled ease the tensions between the three adults, as well as Kára quietly approaching at the rear. She looked up quizzically at the three of them, but landed on Ragnar for longer second, who in turn continued to avoid all eye contact.

"Well if it isn't the oldest Ragnarsson," The witch peered into his face, examining his features thoroughly before settling on his eyes. Her hands reached up and cupped his cheeks, with her thumbs sliding under this lids. It was Bjorn's turn to endure the intense gaze of the Völva, but unlike his father, he did not look away. Instead he kept his brow straight and met the woman's pupil as she peered into his soul. "I see you are a man, now. I heard your call in the winter… and I see the bear in your eye. His spirit lies there, ready to aide you in your ambitions," her hands slipped from his face and down to his hands, where her fingers landed on the iron ring on his finger.

"Do you know whose ring this is?" Bjorn asked immediately the moment her fingers touched his.

She patted his hand, while still cupping them in her own, "The answer will be revealed to you soon, from holy lips."

"Are you not holy?"

Hulda gave a soft chuckle before pulling her hands away from his and bringing it to her person, then she turned her attention back to Ragnar.

"Hello Ragnar," she replied simply.

He gave a nod, but no reply and kept his arms folded across him.

"I heard you brought my daughter over to the longhouse for nattmal," she watched the king look at Kára before returning his wide blue stare up at the Red Woman.

"She was hungry," he finally spoke, his voice both soft and hoarse, as if he had gone a whole day without drinking. Ragnar's thumb went back to digging into the grooves of the peach pit in his hand as he slowly gained back his voice. "What has brought you here, if I may ask? You have not stepped into Kattegat since… For a very long time."

Hulda's arm snaked over Kára's shoulder and brought her closer to her side, "Kára is in need for new clothes. I came for fabric," she casted a look around the market in mild impress. "Kattegat has greatly grown since I last lived here. It's a change that I knew would happen, with you at the helm of it all."

Ragnar leaned his elbow on the barrell casually as he flashed a set of teeth in what appeared to be a bashful grin at the compliment. His mind was still foggy, and he felt a great apprehension from being so vulnerable around her; it was like he wanted to avoided her judgement the most out of everyone. He was sure that his family, his friends, and his people noticed his great change, but he had no care for their opinions. He was king, he could do as he pleased. However, Hulda was vastly different from everyone in his life; one, she did not answer to him. She, like the Seer, was the mouthpiece to the gods, but unlike the Seer, she was a woman, which meant her gifts put her on a grander status than even his wife.

Aslaug had tried to convince him that she, too, was a Völva by predicting Sigurd's serpentine eye before he was born. That instance had no doubt convinced Ragnar of his wife's abilities. Foresight she had, but she was no Völva, not to the degree that Hulda was. The Red Woman was wiser, more talented, and if testimonies served her reputation correct, she was more accurate with her prophecies and predictions than Aslaug. Perhaps it was the reason why Aslaug had grown more jealous of Hulda every years. Aslaug's magical prowess only served herself, her sons, and Ragnar, so she grew little in her skill. Hulda had committed herself the moment her husband died, but years before she had opened her services to the masses, which included being a midwife and healer. If Ragnar remembered correctly, she even served the Seer for a few years before she married Ulf to learn more of the gods.

Ragnar did not wish to appear vulnerable, but he knew on some level that Hulda knew it just by looking at him. Still, he was determined not to seem like a fool in front of her, so he attempted to at least appear confident in his words. He started by making the keen observation as he turned his attention back to the little redhead with the braid, when he noticed her feet under the clearly too-short skirt.

"Look who has shoes," he joked, and then looked back at the mother. "I had the impression you were allowing the wolves to raise her, Hulda."

The woman gave a great sigh, "I have the impression she would love that."

"Stop talking like I am not here," Kára huffed with her arms crossed. The three adults regarded her with amusement, which only fueled her annoyance and then it tripled when Ragnar had the audacity to ruffle her hair. She swatted at his hand.

Hulda adjusted her arm around her daughter's shoulders as she turned back to Bjorn, "Bjorn, would you do me a small favour and take my daughter for a moment. I wish to talk to your father, if you don't mind. You can tell her your adventures in the mountains."

Ragnar felt his heart stop, and then his stomach dropped the moment Bjorn obliged with the nod of his head. Hulda's hand was replaced with Ironside's massive one as he escorted Kára away from the two and into the markets. Ragnar had half a mind to reach out for his son's sleeve and beg him to not leave him alone with the Völva, he knew the lecture he would endure from her would be filled with more shame than his wife could ever invent.

The moment that they were out of earshot, Hulda rounded on him with her lips fallen to a straight line. "You are not yourself, Ragnar."

The man rolled his head, pointing his nose in the opposite direction of her. "I do not know what you are talking about," he replied, but felt fingers curl under his chin and yank his face back to her by his beard. His eyes turned wide from both the sting and surprise at her boldness.

"Do not play fool with me, Ragnar Lothbrok," she chided him, and kept her nails on his chin. "Your skin is dry, your lips are tainted red, and your eyes are bloodshot. I know a fraying man when I see one. You had such a beautiful mind," she pulled away, her expression growing mournful. "Why do you poison it?"

His eyes darted to and fro from hers, finding more clarity in that moment since he had woke up that day with a foggy mind due to the night prior. "It is medicine, not poison," he defended himself through a whisper. "I came from Paris with a weak and ill body. I nearly had died, if it had not been for Yidu's medicine."

Hulda's eyes narrowed, "Yidu. This is not a northern name."

"She is not a northern woman,"

"So, she is a slave?" It came out as a question, but it was meant as a statement. Hulda gave no room for a reply as she continued, "Do you have any confidence that she is doing this for your benefit and not hers?"

Ragnar pursed his lips, causing his mustache to cover his mouth. "She is not like that; she is different."

Hulda crossed her arms and rolled her hip to the side. "Like Lagertha and Aslaug?" She tilted her head to the side.

The viking straightened his spine and closed the distance between them so he towered over her by half a foot. He placed his hand on the stack of barrels behind her head and balanced on one foot while the other crossed around his ankle. "Are you jealous?"

The woman's face fell into stone, "You know, Lothbrok, not all women who fuck you are in love with you."

His eyebrows rose to his hairline as he rolled his head onto his raised shoulder, "I did not say that, you did." Ragnar brazenly smiled, "Though, now that you mention it, that does seem like a pattern."

Hulda rolled her eyes, "And yet you do not do a good job at holding their love."

That wound stung and he showed it by sucking through his teeth and leaning back from the verbal assault. He pulled his free hand up to his breast and held his heart to illustrate the wound. When his hand dropped to his side again, he leaned back to her and whispered, "Maybe I am not a good man to love. Maybe, my heart is doomed to be fickle and selfish. For what's it worth, Hulda, I do not foresee another woman falling in love with me again."

The word 'foresee' triggered a hand motion from the woman, and Hulda found that she had little control of herself and reached up and to place her fingers over the cavity that hid his heart. Her eyes flickered to the spot and her muscles slackened under her pale skin. Slightly taken back by the sudden change in her demeanour, Ragnar once again found himself breathless and tense.

The sound of thumping drummed in his ear and for a moment he did not realize it was his own heart beat. It sounded like a drum that was being rhythmically beaten by a god as her fingertips pressed against his leather jerkin. She recoiled her hand slowly and brought it to her own chest; the digits curling into her palm, while her thumb rubbed along her long middle nail in thought.

Hulda cleared her throat, "I would not worry so much on romance, Ragnar Lothbrok. Stay concerned on your mind, and the state of it. Your reliance on this woman and her 'medicine' I fear will stray you farther away from yourself, and everyone you love."

"I can handle myself," Ragnar was stubborn; he did not want to part with his only sanctuary, not now, and perhaps not ever. The times he did not have Yidu's herbs, it was like if he was living in Hel, or walking in perpetual agony of his soul. When he took them, he felt light, powerful, and invincible. He witnessed things he never imagined, and the king could not see himself give up that precious gift.

"You are isolating yourself from your family, and friends. Why would you rather be with a slave, than your own sons?"

Ragnar pursed his lips again, he attempted to bite his tongue before it moved on it's own, but it was left to its own devices. "Are you not doing the same thing, Hulda? Isolating yourself from your friends?" She squinted at him, but gave no rebuttal, which was the man's small victory. "You would not know, would you, if I was truly avoiding my family. You are not here to witness it."

Very slowly, Hulda's lips stretched into a smile as an idea had formulated in her mind, and Ragnar's wide eyes frantically bounce between her orbs and mouth, wondering what she was thinking, and what he had said for this idea to be birthed. He feared it would be something he would immediately regret, or regret later. Neither was ideal.

"Then, perhaps I will listen to my own advice and finally reunite myself with the city I had grown to love. If not for me, than for my daughter, who I know needs more than what I can offer alone," Her arms swung down to her sides, her eyes sparkling with her larger victory. "If you are truly not avoiding your family, Ragnar, then surely we will be seeing each other more often." She began to walk away from him, her shoulder gently grazing his as she did so.

Once the woman was out of eyeshot, Ragnar pulled back his lips and bared his clenched jaw in annoyance at the predicament that he found himself into. Ragnar dragged his hand down his face, and cursed under his breath.

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 **Hope that chapter was worth the wait! Chapters might get that lengthy, if I follow this trend.**

 **A little history lesson:**

 **Vikings were actually very hygienic people. This is shown briefly in the show with Ragnar washing his face and blowing his nose in a basin that was presented to him and his family by a slave. They combed their hair every day, and bleached it to get rid of lice. They bathed in bathing houses, in lakes, rivers, etc, or sometimes had tubs of water in their quarters. Women carried around hygienic tools attached to their broaches like keychains. On it was a comb of bone or ivory, tweezers, razors, and ear spoons to clean their ears. They were also worn like accessories because they were intricately designed. So it was pretty frowned upon and taboo to be dirty and unhygienic, which is why it is a big deal that Kara is so dirty. Since she lived all her life away from society for the most part, and having to do most of the fishing and hunting for her and her mother, it's natural that she appears so feral and with little care of how she presents herself to people. Regular social norms of her society don't apply to her because she wasn't raised that way, but that doesn't erase the expectation that her people have on her. So that's another reason why people treat her badly when shes alone in Kattegat.**

 **I know I've mentioned this before, but Volva were well respected in Viking culture. When one visited a city, the jarl, king, or queen often gave up their seat for the volva. Men who practiced magic were taboo. They were often assumed to be untrustworthy, which is why Ragnar made that comparison that the Seer was not considered as revered as Hulda, because he was a man practicing a woman's craft. Also, the reason why Aslaug is not considered an actual witch, is because she is married with children. All women were seen to have magic powers, some stronger than others, but to be a true Volva, one has to forgo their family and dedicate their entire lives to the gods and magic. Of course, as you can see, this isn't entirely true for Hulda, but I mentioned before this is something that will be addressed later in the story.**

 **Thanks for reading, and as always, I would love to hear some feedback.**

 **\- CB.**


	7. 6: The Vixen's Scream

**Master of My Sea**

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 **It's been a while, I know, but to be perfectly honest, not only did I have a lot going on in the month of October, but the lack of feedback from the last chapter was a bit discouraging. Second guessed myself a bit, until I convinced myself the reason why no one reviewed last chapter was because it didn't really have any ivar/kara moments. Besides, I realized that I like this chapter too much to not publish it.**

 **So, one thing I will say in this chapter...yes, I may have... took a major inspiration from the movie Brave in this, but I couldn't help it, okay? It's my favourite scene in that movie, and I had all the ingredients to put in this story. So before y'all point that out, I'm just sayin'... it was intentional and I'm calling myself out on being unoriginal XD (sorta)**

 **Anyway, thanks for those who did favourited and alerted, and a shout out to the tumblr crew who wanted to give this story a read (:**

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chapter six:  
 **THE VIXEN'S SCREAM**

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Bjorn had found himself abandoned by his father, which did not surprise him while simultaneously aggravating him. Ragnar had been slipping from grace ever since they left for Paris, and just when he seemed to be gaining his health, it was his mind that had gone instead. By the time Ironside had returned from the mountains, he no longer recognized his father, which gave him an undeniable amount of disappointment. He wanted, more than anything, to live up to his father's expectations, but now Ragnar failed to meet Bjorn's.

Despite his father flaking away, Bjorn found himself content with the company that was plopped into his hands. Hulda's daughter had come to remind him of Gyda, but far less timid. He was sure if his sister was still alive, she would be a lot like their mother, who Kára also reminded him of. So, Bjorn came to enjoy the girl's company, enough for them to stray away from the market place and towards the thicket that wrapped around the city border, both engulfed with conversation.

"I've never seen a bear that size," Kára shares after Bjorn had finished his story about what he endured during his survival retreat.

Bjorn glanced down at her as they walked side by side, "But you've seen bears?"

"I live in the forest," the girl stats matter of factly, "I see them at least twice a season. Mostly mothers and their cubs. I try to stay in the trees until they pass by." It wasn't often that bears would come in the clearing of her house, but when they did, it was usually adolescent bears trying to find food. Bears of any age could do a lot of damage, but cubs and juveniles were easily frightened away if you give them enough of a scare. Kára explains to Bjorn that when they do come near them home, she hoists a large scarecrow with a stag skull mounted on the top, and then blows on a horn until they get frightened away.

Bjorn lifted his eyebrows in mild impress, "Clever. It sounds like you take after your father."

"I would like to be, but," she gave a long sigh and looked at her feet. "I know so little about him. I know what he did, and how he died. I know nothing of how he was, how he talked, how he walked, how he fought… nothing. I would not know if I was taking after him, with so little knowledge of him."

Bjorn's mouth fell into a firm line. He pitied the girl for the life she could have had with both a father and mother, and even a brother. He did realize how isolated she was until this moment, and it seemed like her mother helped little in the regards of knowing who she was, and where she came from.

"I did not know your father personally, but I can tell you what I remember about him," Bjorn offered, earning Kára's attention. "He was a smart man, and worked in a way that was five steps ahead of his enemies. He and my father weren't as close as he was with Floki, but Ulf's loyalty to my father was just as iron bound as any man in my father's warband. Ulf believed in Ragnar, almost as much as Floki, but his faith in him never wavered. As a boy, I remembered him to always have a smile on his face, but that changed when Eirik was killed during Jarl Borg's raid of Kattegat."

"Who was Eirik?"

Bjorn was surprised by little after he returned from the mountain, but Kára's question had slowed down his strides until she was just a little ahead of him. He looked at the back of her head, his mind alert at her ignorance. Surely she would know the name of her brother, even if she was not born when he had died. Would Hulda really deprive her daughter the knowledge of her having a brother? Perhaps she knew she had one, but simply did not know his name.

Kára turned to him when she noticed his gait had slowed, but also waited for an answer that he was hesitating to answer. Bjorn did not know if it was his place to give that answer, or at least a truthful one, if she truly did not know she had a brother. He thought, for now, he would play along with her ignorance, and simply say, "He was a good friend, and a good man, just like your father.

Kára turned around and sighed, "It seems like everyone in the past were good men and good friends. Why does this not ring true when it comes to men of today?"

"I would not glamourize our fathers; not all men or women of the past were noble or honourable. My uncle had betrayed my father once, out of sheer jealousy, and in the end he had paid for his crimes when he became shamed by his people."

"Floki told me about Rollo," she replied. "How he redeemed himself when he saved Aslaug and your brothers from Jarl Borg's invasion. In comparison, he is more honourable than _most_."

Bjorn peered down at her before pulling his gaze up ahead, "You are talking about someone specifically, I take it."

"Perhaps," she admitted, her nose flaring up in slight agitation.

"And perhaps, it is one of my brothers?"

Her head spun around at him, almost giving herself whiplash from how she had to crane her neck. "How do you know that?"

Bjorn couldn't keep his mouth in a straight line when he made the observation. His teeth flashed in mild amusement, "Of all the youths in Kattegat, it is my younger half brothers who have all the reason to be insufferable. They were not raised humbly, not like I was. I was a farmer's son before I was a King's son, or an Jarl's son. But Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd and Ivar, they were raised as princes, and do not have much of the humility nor the knowledge that you and I have grown up learning."

"And what knowledge do you speak of?" Kára had turned back around, listening to Bjorn intently.

"Survival," he replied simply. "They never had to learn how to defend themselves, or their home. When I was your age, my mother and I had to defend our farm from strange men often, while Ragnar was out raiding. And you," he nodded towards the forest that circled them. "Defend yourself and home from bears."

Kára couldn't help but smile at herself, and then up at Bjorn, "I suppose so. Though, if they want to bring any honour to their father's legacy, they should learn now. They are men, and I'm sure Ragnar will want to take Ubbe and Hvitserk to Paris this summer."

Bjorn nodded, "You are right. We can start today."

The girl stopped and looked up at him again, her brow knitted as she repeated him: " _We_?"

Ironside stopped as well, "Yes. You and I. Their place of training is not too far from here, and I'm sure they are spending the afternoon there as the Longhouse is full of visitors today. If we are lucky, we will see them there."

"What makes you think they will take any training advice from me?"

"I believe you will find a way to prove your mettle, Kára," Bjorn walked by her, a little east of the direction they were heading. "Nothing will motivate boys their age more than when they see a girl that is better than they are."

Kára suddenly pictured the face of Ivar when he watched from the sidelines as she plants every one of their errors right into the bullseye from various distances. Then, he would surely feel like him owning her bow is a great disservice to such a fine crafted weapon. The redhead found herself smiling from ear to ear as she skipped over a rock to catch up with Ironside's long stride.

 **X X X**

Ivar was thankful that their training area was not within public eye. He did not want more people witness his incompetence and failures. For years ever since he had shoved the axe into the skull of that boy, people looked on him in fear. He would rather people kept to that, instead of looking at him like a waste of skin, like a failure, or worse, look onto him with pity. He could endure Sigurd's taunts and chuckles - that he was used to, despite it always getting under his skin. But the shame of being watched by others would cripple his pride, and his pride is the one thing he refused to be crippled.

Despite Ubbe's tips on using a bow and how to aim, it did not help Ivar. For every arrow he let let loose would wobble in the wind and land pathetically in the grass, five feet away from the intended target. His cheek now had a red mark and a welt blooming from when the string slapped him. If he weren't wearing wrist guards, there would be even more welts on his wrists. After his thirtieth arrow had just skimmed the border of the round target and landed in the bush, Ivar groaned loudly in frustration, his fingers curling around the limbs of the wooden bow threateningly.

"I would say you will be better off sewing, Ivar, but maybe your eye can't even see the hole in the needle if you can't even see a giant target 20 feet in front of you," Sigurd smirked to himself as he brought his whetstone to his sword.

"It's this bow! It's shit!"

"A bad workman blames his tools," the commanding voice of Bjorn shook the training area, causing all movement to freeze and silence. Their oldest brother entered with wide shoulders and a leader's gait, one that he rightfully earned. Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd stopped what they were doing and went over to their older brother. He had returned a few nights ago, but they had not gotten a moment alone, since Bjorn found himself preoccupied with something he wouldn't share. Ivar remained sitting on the cut tree trunk, stationary in his spot for obvious reasons, but also sulking at Bjorn's comment.

"Bjorn!" Ubbe reached his brother, and clapped him on the biceps. "Where have you been? You have to tell us what happened up in the mountains."

"We heard that you fought a bear," Sigurd added just as Hvitserk came up behind him.

"I will share the tale with you, my brothers, in due time. But, today, I thought we could help you with training, since," he sent a glance up to his youngest brother, raising his eyebrows playfully. "You four clearly need it."

Ubbe and Hvitserk both scoffed, while Ivar scowled and went to rub his cheek in shame. It was Sigurd who looked at Bjorn and asked him to clarify one detail.

"We? Who is we?"

"My friend and I," The viking turned around just in time for a girl in a blue dress and apron approach the clearing from the opening between two trees. She had orange hair in a plait over her shoulder, and the three who stood looked at her with confusion. Ivar tried to hold his ground and glower in the opposite direction, but the silence drew his curiosity and he turned around. The muscles in his face slackened at who stood there, for he did not recognize her. She was clean, her hair was no longer a mess, and there was a natural tan on her skin that hid under dirt before. Not to mention she was in a dress that was clearly too small for her. The skirt cut too high, and stitching clung tightly at the seams, her growing body threatening to break them. It gave her the illusion of curves and femininity that was not quite there yet.

It was Sigurd who deduced it quicker, " _Kára_? Kára Ulfsdóttir?"

"That would be me," she stood awkwardly next to Bjorn, looking at the three and only glancing at the fourth for a split second.

Hvitserk eyed her and then his half brother, "A girl is going to help us train? What does _she_ know about fighting?"

"I know that your wrist guard is on backwards," she snapped back and then worked over to Ubbe, "The reason why you keep stumbling is because your footing isn't balanced," she turned to Sigurd, "You're using the wrong type of stone to sharpen that sword, and-" she at last landed on Ivar who was avoiding her eyes. "You are not holding the bow correctly."

Hvitserk flushed embarrassingly as he quickly looked down at this wrist and scrambled to correct it. Ubbe was more tactful and looked at his older brother, who seemed smug, which meant that she was right. He nodded his head, "I guess we do need a little help."

"I'm happy to hear that, Ubbe," Bjorn clapped his half brother on the shoulder. Ubbe was getting tall, almost reaching Bjorn's height. The boy reminded him a lot of himself at his age; more eager to learn, to try new things. He even had the same cut he had at that age.

Hvitserk was still unimpressed and unconvinced. After he had fixed his wrist guard, he looked up as if he did not get called out on his idiocy. "How exactly is she going to help us? Even if she knows a bit, she is in a dress."

Sigurd had lifted his head up from examining what he had originally thought was a whetstone was really just a regular rock, which only irritated him. After he threw it over his shoulder, he stood next to Hvitserk with his hands on his belt. "The only person who needs the most help is Boneless over there. He's sunk every arrow we have into the soil."

Ivar's fingers curled white around the limbs of the bow, his shoulders shaking from the boiling rage that threatened to explode. Kára had noticed it, which made her turn to glare at Sigurd, "I doubt your prowess is anything to brag about, Sigurd."

Bjorn did not want to interrupt, he stood next to Ubbe and watched the children puff up their chests around Kára, peacocking their prides as if they deserved it. He, of course, was not so ignorant as his brothers. They were raised by women who did not fight, whereas his mother was a shieldmaiden of legend. She lead a company of entirely skilled shieldmaidens like herself, that many seasoned vikings could not beat. His half brothers had yet to see a woman best a man in front of them, and not through tales told by Aslaug. The viking folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head at the display, Ubbe patiently standing beside him, watching what he had a feeling would surely humiliate his hot-headed brothers.

Sigurd snorted, "Is that a challenge?"

Ivar peaked over his shoulder, still silently angry, but he couldn't deny the interest in the situation. His eyes met with Kára's and he felt the need to quickly look away. For some reason he felt shame even looking at her, especially after their last encounter. He was still resentful at how she made him feel that night; Ivar had never felt as utterly useless as he did that moment. The shock of her words had cut deep, and reminded him he would never fully be a man, let a lone a man that his father would be proud of. He found himself angry crying into the darkness, which eventually triggered Aslaug to come in rushing in to console him, without asking what was wrong.

"The only challenge I'm going to get from this is trying not to laugh at how bad you are," Kára stood in the middle of the training yard now, her arms crossed over her chest, but just barely. The seams in her sleeves pulled her back from even taking a comfortable pose. She mentally yelled at her mother for making her wear the dress over her old tunic and trousers.

Sigurd and Hvitserk visibly bristled; their shoulders squared and Bjorn had to hide his mouth behind a hand to hide the all-knowing smirk caused by their predictable reaction. Kára knew what she was doing - it was so easy to rile boys up when you question their competence. It tended to make the embarrassment of losing all the more worse.

"Alright, have your way then," Hvitserk grabbed a bow and a few of Ivar's failed arrows from the ground and then moved back farther, nearly to the order of the clearing. He pointed a finger at one of the wooden targets that was strung up across the yard. Sigurd shortly followed suit, and stood across from next target. "We will see who is the better archer. You, or us," the elder of the two boasted as he lifted his arm with the bow.

Already Kára could spot errors in their technique. Elbows too high, not using enough fingers to knock back the arrow, not to mention their drawback was weak. She was surprised it even hit near the target at all, but she decided the elements were on their side today - it wasn't windy where they were. Hvitserk's arrow landed just two inches shy of the center, whereas Sigurd's landed a little farther south, which he was visibly disappointed on. Nevertheless, he looked back with confidence, as if she would merely graze the target, or hit the rim.

The cocky little shit that was Hvitserk made a mock bow as he gestured towards the targets, "Your turn, Greenfoot."

The redhead sighed at the nickname, not enjoying how easily it had caught on ever since she had came to the Longhouse that night. Turning around she walked up to Ivar, who wasn't prepared for her to be even near him. He didn't know what he was expecting, but when she held out her hand and simply said, "give me it," he looked at the bow that was once hers. He was hesitant; what if she just took this moment to take back her bow and ran off with it? It was his. The Red Woman gave it to him, and she promised it would give him good fortune.

"I'll give it back," she replied a little more forcefully.

He pursed his lips but relented, and handed her over the bow. The moment the wood landed on her fingers, a new found confidence built up in Kára's chest. It had been too long since she had last held her bow. It was familiar, but new in a way. It no longer smelled like home. Which reminded her that it no longer belonged to her, and that gave her a dull sore in her chest.

She swallowed down her sadness and walked back to where the brothers stood waiting. Kára lifted her arms up, but the fabric of her sleeves constricted again. She could barely lift her arms above her shoulders at how tight it was. Sigurd and Hvitserk sniggered under their breaths, and with the eyes of Ubbe and Bjorn on her, it was aggravating and humiliating that she was being restrained by a stupid dress. Kára looked up and caught the scrutinizing look of Ivar from the other side, and she then remembered how Sigurd had talked to him only moments ago. Setting her jaw she lifted her arms once again, more forcefully, causing the seams of her sleeves and down her spin to rip open. The sound made the boys quiet at least, but they shared amused looks, as immature boys do.

With freedom in her arms, Kára now felt in her element. She held the weapon up, bow arm straight, elbow pointed behind her, string to her nose, and her eagle eye narrowing in on her target. The noise around her dulled to only the sounds of nature; the ruffles of leaves, the gentle wind rustling the branches from high above them, the frantic chirping of pheasants not too far away.

Her fingers relaxed into her palm and the breathe she held released the moment the arrow flew from her bow. It went straight for Sigurd's target, splitting through his arrow and causing the target to spin around from the wire that held it above ground. Before they could even comprehend where her arrow went, she pulled out another one and aimed at Hvitserk's; again not aiming for the center, but for his arrow, and it struck true the second time. Finally at the third, she drew another arrow, but this time she did not move for a moment longer. Kára waited only a few seconds, but the world slowed down in that moment for her. Without warning, she let out a sound that could only be described as a blood curdling scream. The Ragnarssons, including Ubbe and Bjorn, were visible startled as they gave a slight jump.

It had done its trick though. A flurry of pheasants came flying out from the east, right through training area. Kára's arrow went loose, and found itself through the neck of a brightly coloured bird before burrowing into the center of the third and final target.

Silence befell them all as she lowered her arms and let them hang loosely by her sides. After a moment of eyeing her work, thoroughly impressed with herself, but trying to act as nonchalant as possible. Truthfully, the first two were easy, as they were stationary targets. It was only a matter of drawing back the string hard enough that she would be able to put enough weight behind the arrow to give it a strong enough impact to split their arrows. It was the pheasants that she took a chance at; if they did not fly in her direction, she would have made herself look like a mad woman. She took a chance at showboating, and it paid off. Perhaps it was the gods showing her some pity after her mother humiliated her that morning by throwing her naked and screaming in the river.

The victor lolled her head over to the two competitors, "Anyone hungry? I am only asking because your gaping mouths are drooling."

"What in Hel was that?" Ivar spoke at last, his body fully turned in their direction. He was talking about the bloodcurdling scream she had done.

She quickly turned to him and shuffled on her spot self consciously, and opened her mouth to explain, but Bjorn was the first to answer as he approached her from behind and clasped her shoulders with both of his large hands. "It was a Vixen's Scream. She did it to draw out the birds. A very good tactic when you are hunting pheasants, who are hiding, if you are quick enough."

He moved around her and to the center of the training area so he was looking at everyone. "Sigurd, Hvitserk, I am disappointed in you. The best and most valuable advice you can be given is to never underestimate your opponent, no matter their appearance, and you did the exact opposite. That is why I let this foolishness unfold, because I knew the humiliation would be a greater impact on you two. There are a great many things you can learn from someone like Kára, not only because she is skilled, but because she has more practical experience than all of you. Starting today, I will have her, and myself, assist you, my brothers, to become not only viking, but men worthy of the title."

He looked into the eyes of every single one, even Kára, as if challenging her to oppose this idea. Bjorn was far too intimidating to say no too, it was as if he was like a father figure, a far better one than their actual father. He did have a daughter, Siggy, perhaps that is why it seemed so natural to him.

Bjorn finally landed his gaze on Ivar, "And this includes you, Ivar," he approached him and laid his colossal hand on his shoulder. "Do not doubt yourself, for others will doubt you. Allow yourself help from others, and you will reach your potential faster. This, I promise you."

 **X X X**

Training had resumed after that, but only for a short period, since the brothers had already been at it for a couple hours before Bjorn intervened. The sun was about to set when they left the training area, and headed back home. Only two remained behind.

For the remainder of that afternoon, Kára only found herself useful when she gave the Ragnarssons advice on how to take care of their weapons, since truthfully she had no formal training in using a sword. Her talent was in resourcefulness, hunting, and crafting. She knew how to aim, whether it be with a bow, a crossbow, spear, or axe. If it was long range, Kára was better than most adults, let alone people her age. Watching Bjorn with a sword and axe was an entirely different experience. Knowing how to survive and fight against the elements and the force of nature was vastly different to surviving on the battlefield.

Kára wanted to pick up a sword and throw herself in the spar with Bjorn with the others, but she had already gained their respect with her aim, and knew if she was terrible with the sword it would tarnish the reputation she had only just made herself. So she resumed to showing Ubbe how to do minor repairs on the grips of his weapons, while only glancing up at the others every once in awhile. Ivar seemed to be far more recluse, but more determined after Bjorn's declaration. He had abandoned the bow for now, and had taken up an axe and began throwing them at tree trunks; Kára noted that his aim was far better at that, than it was with the bow. She also noted that every time Ivar seemed to fail or humiliate himself, like fall off the tree stump, pull a muscle in his arms, or miss his target, Sigurd was quick to point that out and make some kind of insult.

She didn't know why it bothered her so much.

"Are you coming, Kára?" Bjorn asked her after Ubbe, Sigurd, and Hvitserk had left the clearing, leaving her to pick up lost arrows in the ground.

The redhead turned to the other end, where Ivar was adjusting the straps around his legs after he had undone them to train. His brothers did not help him in the slightest, but she had a hunch that he didn't want their help in the first place. When she looked back at Bjorn, she shook her head, "I think I'm going to stay for a bit, then head home."

Bjorn had watched her gaze go towards his youngest brother. Nodding his head, he didn't say another word before turning and heading back to the city. Once he and the others were far enough away, Kára walked towards Ivar, but stopped about ten feet away.

"Why do you let them talk to you that way?"

Ivar froze, his shoulders squared up and his lips curled into his teeth. He wanted to pretend that she was not there. Sure, she humiliated Sigurd and Hvitserk, for reasons that elude him, but her show of skill had only served to annoy and make him resent her further. Her words in his bedroom that night still echoed in his mind, and now there was more proof that this girl was far better than him in something that he should be better at. What was worse was that seeing her hold the bow that he had took from her gave him a bit of shame. It clearly belonged to her; she gave it purpose when it was in her hands, whereas he failed just by holding it.

"Why do you care?" He asked bitterly, resuming his straps around his calves. "I thought I was no longer worth it?"

Kára found herself rolling her eye so hard that she felt it would roll behind her skull. This was not because of him, but because of herself. That night she had left with her dignity intact, and truly believed that Ivar the Boneless would no longer play a part in her life, despite their interactions only lasting two days. Evidently, he would be hard to ignore, especially if she wanted to be around Bjorn to learn about fighting. However, now she was in a dilemma, and her conscious was nagging at her to make the right choice. It had been a fortnight, but it was obvious that her words stung him deeply. Perhaps even so deeply that he needed to to prove her and everyone wrong about the man he will be.

Bjorn believed in him; Floki believed in him; his mother believed in him, but he found himself longing for the faith of others. He wanted, above anyone else, to have his father believe in him the way he believed in Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, and Bjorn. Now, though, he found himself wanting to prove his worth to this girl, who no longer looked the way she did when they had first met. She looked more woman than feral child, and he could plainly see her face now that it wasn't dirty. The dress she wore hugged her body, whereas the tunic and trousers she usually donned made her body look straight and boyish. Ivar found himself yearning to look at her, but he was adamant on doing the exact opposite.

The boy's back was to her, his eyes glaring at his leather-clad legs while he busied himself with the straps. She remained quiet, and he hoped this meant that she would leave him be.

"I care," her voice made him halt, but her words that followed after made him roll his eyes."I care that my bow is now in the hands of someone who can't even use it. And it bothers me that it's potential is wasted… So that is why I am going to teach you how to use it as well as I do."

Ivar slowly turned halfway around and looked at her over his shoulder with a furrowed brow, "What?"

Sighing, Kára picked up a few more arrows left on the ground and walked passed him towards the elevated tree stump that he had been sitting on before. "Pick up that bow, and come here before I change my mind."

Despite her impatience, Ivar understandably was hesitant, caught between his pride and his unwillingness to work with her. The temptation to scoff at her, tell her to fuck off, and then crawl back home was overwhelming, but Bjorn's voice rang in his mind.

Allow yourself help from others, and you will reach your potential faster. This, I promise you.

The cripple sighed and began to drag himself over to her, and then hauled himself up, picking up the bow that laid idle against the bark. Without her telling him to do so, he was about to draw back the bow with an arrow already nocked.

"No," she flatly said, which made him pause and turn to glare at her.

"What did I do wrong?"

"Point it at the ground while you're placing the arrow, then aim," she explained.

"Why?"

"If you make a mistake, it will shoot into the ground. This way you avoid losing an arrow by mistake, and accidentally killing or injuring the wrong thing," Kára then nodded. "Try again."

Ivar let out a steady sigh through his nose, feeling regret seep through his veins. He did as she instructed, and pointed the arrow to the ground before lifting the weapon and aiming at the target. He released the arrow without her saying to do so; the string slapped his cheek and his wrist brace, and as predicted the arrow made a pitiful arch and landed in the ground to the far east of the target.

"Were you paying attention to your arrow?" She asked.

"Yes," he replied irritably, tilting his head to her. "It landed in the ground. Like the others."

"It wobbled," she ignored him. "In the air. You put too much vibration in the string, because you aren't holding the bow correctly. I told you this earlier."

"I am doing it exactly as Ubbe has instructed," Ivar insisted. "Hold straight, point the arrow where you want to hit."

Kára ran her hand down her face and shook her head, "The simplest way to explain it, only you weren't holding it straight, and pointing the arrow to your target isn't going to make it hit the target."

"Obviously," he muttered woodley.

"Pull back another arrow, this time don't let it go," she instructed after handing him another.

He listened, but his jaw was set and hard. Out of habit he leaned his head against the bowstring and closed one eye, but stopped himself from letting the arrow fly. The finger he held back the string twitched and struggled from the weight of the draw back.

"There," she began. "That's one of the reasons why the arrow wobbles. Hold the string with three fingers, not one, and pull it back further."

"It can't go back any further," he insisted. Ivar heard a sigh and her feet moving across the ground to right behind him. His muscles tensed when she gripped his hand that held the string, and pull out his fingers from his fist and forced them to wrap around the string with the back of the arrow nestled between his middle and pointer finger.

"Your form is wrong too. Your elbow is too high, and you're bending the other arm. You're trying too hard to control the bow, and not allowing it to become part of you," Kára began to adjust his arms in the properly position before taking his draw back hand and pulling the string a couple inches behind him. Ivar found himself allowing her to adjust his limbs to her specification, and enjoying the heat of her body so close to him. Every time exposed flesh touched his own, especially her fingers on his, he felt a hot sensation vibrate down his spine. A flash of relocation of the day she gave him a kiss came to mind, but that quickly disappeared the moment she pulled away.

"Now, breathe in, and as you breathe out relax your fingers into your palm to release," he listened to her instructions without question. Ivar's fingers relaxed into his palm and the force of the arrow flew past his cheek with minimal impact to his skin or forearm. It had gone so fast that Ivar hadn't fully processed that it had hit the wooden target until seconds after when the target relaxed in its swinging.

The arrow didn't hit the center, it was a bit south and and only five inches from the border, but he actually hit it. Kára watched him as he stared at the arrow with wide eyes. A small smile threatened to appear; she was happy, and she didn't know why. She told herself it was because she successfully taught someone something practical, but that wasn't entirely it. The look of awe in Ivar's face when he realized he actually hit the target was like watching hope lighting inside of him.

"That's better," Ivar heard Kára say behind him.

He turned around, and saw her looking at the arrow with her hands on her hips casually. "I didn't hit the center," his face dropped. "Even properly using a bow, I can't even hit my mark. I have terrible aim; not fit to be an archer."

Kára fround at him and her arms slipped from her sides, "Do you think a competent archer just figures it out after one arrow?"

"You are younger than me, and you could do...That," he waved a finger over to the other targets where she had splintered Sigurd and Hvitserk's arrows in half.

"That did not happen overnight, Ivar," she walked around the stump to stand in front of him. "Failure is not reason to give up. Failure is what motivated me to become better, and I accomplished that, and you will too. I've watched you with the axe, Ivar. You have impressive aim. The problem you hold with the bow, is that you are not factoring in the elements around you."

"What do you mean?"

"The arrow is light, it holds little weight compared to an axe, so the environment around it affects its destination. If the wind is moving against you, you will need to draw back further, and aim higher. If it is coming to your left, it will cause the arrow to land right of target. If it is coming from your right, the arrow will be on the left of the target. If the wind is behind you, the arrow will lift higher than your aim, so you must aim lower, and it will be faster, so it will have less control."

"And if there is no wind?"

"Then you rely purely on your eye and hand. A steady, straight arm and your good eye will aid you there," Kára bent down and picked up one of the arrows she had collected and handed it to Ivar, feather first.

Ivar looked at it, and then looked at her; his eyes were studying her, but not in a negative way. He had forgotten in the last minute that this girl was only a few moons younger than him, and yet she spoke to him as if she had ten years on him. She was speaking with a wisdom beyond her years. Floki had spoken to Ivar about people like her; not specifically who she was, but the energy that she gave off. People who had old souls, that were born to be skilled, intelligent, and how those people were favoured by the gods. Ragnar Lothbrok was one of those people, Floki had told him. Ivar asked if he was one of those people, and Floki simply smiled at him and tilted his head, eyes squinting in mirth.

Ivar reached and took the arrow from her offered hand and without hesitation he knocked the arrow, repeating each step she taught him in his head until he paused just before releasing it. The gentle breeze crept through the branches from the right of him; Ivar took in a deep breath, and then relaxed his fingers into his palm as he exhaled.

 _ **Do not doubt yourself.**_

The feather of the arrow ghosted his cheek, and he watched in slow anticipation as it flew in a straight line towards the wooden target. With a hollow 'thunk', the arrowhead embedded itself right in the center.

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I **'m also gonna call myself out on Kara being a lil sueish here. I tried to make up for it a lil bit, but re reading it, I did realize I made her look like a showboat for the sake of making her appear better than everyone.**

 **Also, a Vixen's Scream or call, is a female fox calling for a mate. It sounds like a woman dying, which is terrifying. Pheasants are common prey; like most small birds, they will fly away the moment the hear a sound of a known predator. Foxes are common predators to small prey, like birds, and I chose specifically a fox because of they remind me of Kara, specifically red foxes. One, for obvious reasons that she is a redhead, two, because foxes are wise and tactful, and cunning. They know how to use the environment around them in terms of survival and hunting. They're seen as tricksters because they blend well with their environment that their prey often dont see them coming. While Hulda, her mom, is more represented as a cat - mystical and mysterious, a connection to the gods (such as ancient Egyptians believed), her father, Ulf, as his name suggests, is more like a wolf or a dog; loyal, family-oriented, intelligent, and works best in a pack. Foxes might be canines, but they've always reminded me if a cat, domestic or wild, and a dog, or coyote or wolf could procreate, it would look like a fox.**

 ***One last thing, my knowledge of archery isn't exceptional. I do, do it. I'm not good at it, but I have got a few tips along the way. Everything Kara has said here is merely my knowledge and the bit of research I did to make sure I was right. If there are any experts reading this and if I made an error in anyway, please feel free to tell me, and I'll correct it. ***

 **Hope this chapter was worth the wait, and was better than the last one that it warrants a bit of feedback. The next chapter is 100% Ivar and Kara, and I can't wait to publish it.**

 **Thanks for reading!  
**

 **~CB**


	8. 7: The Uruz

**Master of My Sea**

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 **replies:**

HeavensWeatherHellsCompany - Yes, I can't wait for them to grow up too, but there's a few nails I need to hammer in before that happens, lol. When I do get to that, there will be a time skip, so we don't actually have to live through them going age-by-age.

May - Thank you so much for the review. It was very encouraging!

 **I was able to get this chapter up faster than the previous! It's a bit shorter, but it's a good one. Next chapter will be longer, and that's when things sort of pick up a bit. Anyway, A huge thanks to those who reviewed, favourited, and alerted! It's super encouraging, and I love to know if you guys are enjoying the direction I'm going, and I'm also open to all kinds of feedback.**

 **I don't know if any of you noticed, but I have changed the summary of the story. I was never happy with it to begin with, and I don't know if I'm happy with this one. If you can give me your opinions about it, it would be great.**

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chapter seven:  
 **THE URUZ**

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The trees became greener, and the sun more orange as it stood above the heads of the people of Kattegat. The days were getting longer as they neared midsummer, which meant that soon Ragnar and his army would return to Paris. His warband seemed to become larger as more and more visitors docked at the port, which included King Harald Finehair and his brother, Halfdan the Black. Everyone was preparing with more vigor; after the failure of the last year, they wanted to return with a vengeance. Now, they would not underestimate the franks as they had before.

Ivar was one of the many who diligently prepared himself for the upcoming raid that would surely go down in history. He had spent the last week or so training with his brothers, and then privately taking lessons with Kára. She didn't have the sword prowess that his brothers had, but she did offer a lot of help with regards to repairing weapons, hunting, fishing, and survival tips. What kind of plants and things you could use to patch up an injury; how to make a temporary splint for a broken bone; what berries were poisonous, which ones you could eat, and what ones you could weaponize by tainting the tip of your arrows with it. All of this seemed to be common knowledge for everyone but the boys who grew up not needing to know these skills. The princes of Kattegat always had someone that could provide the finished product for them. Kára had explained that most of what she learned was by trial and error, but most of her healing knowledge came from her mother. Other times, especially in times when she had to repair something, she had to use what was available to her. For example, her iron arrowheads were old - she had reused them for years. Every animal she had hunted, she would take the arrow from the body and reuse it. Her other arrows had ivory or bone heads, or simply sharpened ends of the wood.

It was on that bright day that Kára was showing Ivar how to fletch arrows, and learning how to make arrowheads with stone and bones. They sat on a fallen tree partially hidden under smooth large rocks that bordered the shoreline of the sea. They weren't too far away from Kattegat; they could see the docks a couple of fields away from where they sat, but they were isolated and far enough away that couldn't hear the city's chatter. The shade of the trees that hung over them on raised land had shielded them from both the sun and onlookers, making this the ideal place for Ivar to struggle to make fletching.

The boy winced when he felt the tip of the dagger he was using nick his finger. He brought the digit to his eye and examined the droplet of red that contrasted against his skin. "This is the third time," he muttered before bringing the bleeding wound to his lips and sucked up the blood.

"It won't be the last time," Kára smiled to herself as she tossed a new arrow shaft ready for its fletching. She turned her head over to her companion and wiggled her fingers at him, which Ivar now realized was all nicked and littered with tiny white scars. "Once your fingers get calloused from them, it doesn't happen often. Your skin becomes thicker and stronger when it's scarred," she turned back around and grabbed another twig to be skinned.

"I think I can officially say that fletching is my least favourite thing," Ivar commented before grabbing another feather and carefully trimming them to a fine edge.

"It's not so bad," Kára shrugged. "It gives me time to think."

Ivar pulled the feather up to his eyes and examined it scrutinizingly. "Think about what?"

"Things."

"Things?"

"Do you think my mind is just blank half the time? _Don't answer that_ -" she cut him off with a finger and a pointed look just as he opened his mouth to comment. Kára turned back around and looked out towards the sea. She gave another shrug with a single shoulder, "I just think about what it would be if my father was still alive."

Ivar paused what he was doing and shifted his blue eyes over to her. She sat just a little ahead of him, while he leaned against the incline of the hill of soil and rock behind him. After Ulf was mentioned at that dinner, Ivar had started to hear more about him; perhaps he was talked about before and Ivar had only been paying attention now, but it still felt like the man's name was brought up more often ever since Kára had entered into his life. Ulf was mentioned when comparing weapons with the current smiths, or when someone had an intricately carved statue or figurine they would claim it was made by Ulf the Silverhand.

"If your father was alive," Ivar began to speak after some thought, "You would not live in the forest, away from Kattegat." Kára turned to look over her shoulder at him. His eyes were looking at his feather and dagger as he continued, "Perhaps… we would have been able to know each other longer. We could have possibly been raised together while our fathers went raiding in England."

Kára blinked at Ivar as a sly smile slowly crept on her face, "Are you saying you enjoy my company so much you wished that we had known each other longer?"

Ivar looked up, heat rushing to his cheeks, but he quickly squared his shoulders and furrowed his brow at her, "Do not get ahead of yourself, Greenfoot. You are still annoying."

"You spend a lot of time with someone who annoys you," she scooted back from her sitting position so she was shoulder-to-shoulder with the prince. She turned her head to the left so that her chin was resting on her shoulder and batted her eyelashes at him, "You fancy me."

Ivar scoffed and threw the feather he was holding at her face. She giggled as she watched him pull himself up to a straighter sitting position. "If you recall, you're the one who kissed me. If there is anyone that fancies someone _here_ , it is _you_."

A rosey colour painted Kára's cheeks as she took the feather that he threw at her and twirled it in her fingers. It was true enough, she thought at that day he looked attractive and wanted to kiss him. Though her impression of him after that had changed to a rapid decline. Now, however, she was conflicted. He was nowhere as rugged as his brothers, but that was because he still held some youthful qualities yet to grow through; his blonde hair was darkening with his age, his cheekbones were getting sharper, but his arms were as thin as his legs. Well, that wasn't entirely true, especially since Ivar had started training with his brothers and learning archery from Kára. His biceps were getting larger, and his fingers were growing. He had a long way to go to even become as muscular as Ubbe was becoming, but was beginning to start. Ivar was still boyish, but to a girl his age, he was handsome.

Kára looked at the back of his head, which was freshly shaved, while his front remained long. It was the same hairstyle his brothers, save Sigurd, had. She wagered it was because he wanted to be more like them, and because it was getting hotter, so the close shave helped with the heat. Her eyes traveled back to the feather she was twirling, and another impish smirk blossomed on her face as she reached out with it and tickled the nape of his neck.

Ivar immediate shuddered and pulled away rapidly. He turned around immediately with an intense glare, only to see Kára with a shit-eating grin, relaxed against the the dirt and rock behind them. Without a word, he launched at her with hands aiming for her sides and underarms. The redhead squealed as Ivar met his aim and began to tickle her furiously. Kára twisted and curled her limbs into herself as she laughed and screeched from Ivar's fingers that dug under her arms to tickle her. She reached under her and began to tickle Ivar's stomach, and immediately he buckled away from her hands, giving his own yelp.

The two began to wrestle, arms wrapped around each other and fingers reaching out to assault each other's weak spots. They were a tangle of arms, laughter, and screeches, rolling off the log they sat on and soon found themselves in a tumble. They began to roll towards the shoreline of the beach; Ivar could feel the rocks hit and scratch at his face, little twigs breached the fabric of his clothes and poked at his skin. He winced when his legs hit a particularly sharp rock, and out of instinct he let go of Kára to grab the pained area, then used his other hand to dig into the ground to stop himself from rolling further down the incline. Kára didn't have enough time to react, though, and she kept rolling until she slipped off the rocks that bordered the shore and fell right into the water.

The depth of the water in this area of the beach was deep as the land was higher. There was no wind, but for someone who was afraid of the water it felt like the cold grip of Hel had wrapped her fingers around Kára's ankle and pulled her further into the ocean. The girl screamed as she scrambled to hold onto the rock that she fell over, but it was too slick to hold on to. Panic rippled throughout her body when her legs flailed under her and she could not feel the bottom. She screamed bloody murder, trying to claw at the surface of the water, but the waves began to slowly pull her away from the shoreline. Her fingertips barely brushed the surface of the beach rocks now, and with her muscles tensing and her blood rushing to her head, her body felt like lead.

Ivar watched in horror as Kára screamed and scrambled to keep herself afloat. The panic sounds she was making began to gurgle as water pooled into her open mouth with every tide that cloaked over her and the further her head was pulled under the surface. The pain in his thigh was immediately forgotten the moment Ivar sprung into action. Screaming her name, Ivar dung his fingers into the hard earth as he rapidly crawled over to the water's edge. Her fingers were barely touching the rock once he reached it, then suddenly it felt like the tide was getting stronger right in front of his eyes. It was as if the sea was taking her on purpose; taking claim of her body as if it waited for many years.

Kára felt the water freeze her body to sonte. Her breathing became short and her muscles tired from moving rapidly in attempt to keep itself afloat. It was becoming harder to breathe, not because of the water slipping into her throat, but because her heart and lungs were working in overdrive. When the water overlapped over her head, she was pulled under for a moment. The salt water stung at her eyes, forcing her to blink uselessly. A pale, bearded face appeared in front of her, floating in the murky sea water. His green eyes stared into her with lifelessness; bubbles from his mouth dripped from his open, blue lips, and got caught in the dark brown ribbons of his long dark hair that floated around his face. The girl's mouth opened in a scream, which allowed the water poured into her throat. A great spike of fear ran throughout her body, and she began to thrash around against the current. Her arms stretched out, trying to grab anything she could, but it was mostly met with empty air and water, until, that is, warmth gripped around her wrists. Kára blinked out the salty water from her eyes when she was lifted just over the surface, and saw the blurry image of Ivar hanging over the edge of the rock and holding onto her hand with both of his.

"Kára! Hold on!"

She quickly grabbed his wrists with both of her hands in desperation. Ivar curlsed his fingers around her tighter, then grit his teeth in a growl as he pulled her back to the rocks with as much strength as he could. The water made her feel heavier, especially as they crashed over her back and head and dragged back out. The muscles in his shoulders strained as he gave one last tug before the weight lifted and Kára was out of the water. Ivar rolled onto his back, and the girl toppled on top of him, coughing and gasping for air profusely. What took him off guard the most in that moment was when her arms and legs clung him.

She was crying into his tunic.

Ivar didn't know how to react, he was frozen on the spot, breathing hard from the adrenaline that filtered through him. He didn't know what to do, especially after what had just happened, and what she was doing. This was foreign to him in all angles he saw it; then it grew even more uncomfortable when she started to weep the words "why did you do it?" over and over again.

Not knowing what else to do, Ivar immediately thought to his mother, and what she would do during the times he had his tantrums. His arms slowly wrapped around her trembling body, squeezing her to his chest and resting his nose in her hair. The boy's eyes remained wide as he stared into nothingness, only listening to those five words over and over again through her cries and sobs.

 **x x x**

It wasn't long after that they were found, but it felt like ages. Floki and Helga did not live too far from where they were, so they were the first to hear the screams from their house. The couple had arrived to the scene, their eyes widen once they realized what they were looking at. Floki looked from the two kids tangled on the floor, to the water that soaked the earth around them. Ivar looked at him with no words, and nonwords were given, save for the muttering of the redheaded girl. Floki quickly bent down and scooped up Kára after prying her arms off of Ivar. He pulled her close to him, and the girl crippled into his chest once he stood up. Floki quickly handed her to Helga, who took her immediately into her arms, then he bent down and picked and hoisted Ivar over his shoulders.

It had been some time since they got to Floki's house by the shore, where the sea caved into a bay of sorts that lead to the river. Many of Floki's ships, both finished and works in progressed bobbed in the water like vigilant dragons watching over their brood. Helga had stripped Kára from her damped clothes and put one of her apron dresses on her, then wrapped her in thick wools, and put her down to sleep. Ivar remained outside, sitting on a chopping block, staring at the coastline that peaked between thin limbed trees. Helga had left as soon as the redhead and fallen asleep from exhaustion, and immediately took off in the direction of Hulda's hut, which was a mile away.

Floki dragged a bench over and sat down next to him, then looked out in the same direction as the boy. The viking plopped a bundle of arrows, some finished and others needing fletching, on the ground. When Ivar looked down at them, he recognized them as the ones that he and Kára were working on before it happened.

"How are you doing, Ivar?" Floki's soft voice broke the silence.

"I do not know," he furrowed his brow and hugged his arms tighter around himself. "I do not know what just happened, or how it happened." Floki let the silence fill the space again, for a moment, until Ivar turned to look at him. "How is...How is she doing?"

"She will survive."

"Is she hurt?"

Floki's eyes softened when he looked at Ivar, whose face was full of concern. His large hand clasped the young one's shoulder and he gave him a smile. "No. She's a strong one."

Ivar squared his shoulders and took a deep sigh before looking back at the sea. "You should have seen her, Floki. I've never seen someone so terrified… What is wrong with her?"

Floki let a steady breathe through his nose as his hand slipped from the boy's shoulder. He looked at his dirty fingernails from long hours of work and imagined the hands of his friend, Ulf, who always made sure his hands were clean before he went to work. "Her father drowned in the lake in the middle of winter. The ice caved under him, and the water swallowed him," his reply pulled Ivar's attention back away from the landscape and onto his mentor. The viking peaked at the boy through his lashes, "Ulf took his own life. Somehow his daughter had inherited a natural fear to the water, even before she knew."

Ivar blinked slowly as he processed this information. He suddenly remembered that he had heard this before from his brothers, but he didn't know about it was Ulf's own doing. Ivar still didn't understand how Kára could be afraid of the water if she wasn't even born when it happened, or even just understanding that it wasn't an accident. Ulf willfully went out on thin ice, and let it collapse under him. It was a strange way to take your own life, Ivar thought, but perhaps there was some poetic irony he didn't know about.

But, realistically, how could he judge Kára? The water was one of his greatest fears, but for a more rational reason. There was no way he would be able to swim with his legs. He's floated in water that was no more than three feet or less, and most of the time it was in the wooden tub that was made specifically for him. Though the thought of being in open sea, being caught in a storm, and then falling overboard terrified him more than he realized until that moment. Truthfully, would he even survive mentally if he were to go with his father and brothers back to Paris? And Odin forbid, if there is a storm that tosses him overboard, and kills him.

Ivar stared hard into the ground at his feet, his mind flooded with images of the event that happened not too long ago. He remembered her words clearer now than he had did then: "why did you do it?" In light of what Floki had just told him, he now understood the context of the question. It was a valid question indeed, and it seemed that not even Ulf's own daughter knew the answer.

He turned his chin back at Floki, "why did he do it?"

The man's lips turned into a fine line beneath the whiskers of his mustache. His eyes flickered away from the boy and back at his fingers, before moving the didgets over his scalp. "Intelligent men tend to not always be the happiest of folk," he finally replied with a soft tone. "All it takes is one seed on the back of the overpacked muel to break it's back."

Ivar opened his mouth to ask Floki to elaborate, but the sound of footsteps came within ear shot, and the two men turned around to see Helga in tow with the Red Woman. Hulda immediately went to Floki the moment he stood up to greet her. Her face was like a stone dam with water leaking through the cracks, threatening to push the wall down. There was worry there, but she wanted to show some composure.

Ivar twisted his body to look over at her as she gripped Floki's forearms and whispered what he assumed were questions about what happened. Floki answered and then looked over to Ivar, who blinked at the audience. Hulda's eyes softened when she looked at them, and took no hesitation as she floated over, knelt down on her knees and took his hands in hers. Ivar froze under her gaze, which at this moment didn't look as intimidating as they seem to be before. They were the most familiar eyes he, as a child, would know: the eyes of a mother.

"You saved her life, Ivar," her fingers brushed around his hairline as gently as the brush of a dandelion. The boy felt goosebumps litter his arms from the electricity he felt from her. That must be the magic she held; it made the blood in his veins pump, and fill him with both freight and wonder. "For this, I will give you something that was taken away from you many seasons ago."

Confusion was in his eyes, and it only increased when she reached around her own neck and pulled a string over her head and put it over his. He looked down and saw a piece of petrified wood with the Uruz rune carved into it. Ivar lifted his confused eyes up at her, and found her leaning in to kiss his forehead, then gave him one last look before standing up and going towards the house.

Ivar and Floki shared a look once the woman was out of sight, and all the latter could do was reach out with a tight smile and run his hand over the boy's head. Ivar looked down at the necklace once again, his fingers brushing through the carving in contemplation. This was a rune of Freya's Ætt. Floki had taught him. What that meant to Ivar was lost to him; he knew it was the wild ox, but what did it have to do with 'something that was taken away from him many seasons ago'. Nevertheless, he curled his fingers around the piece gently, and looked back up to see the woman in red cradling her daughter in her arms, and nodded at the three others before leaving in silence.

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 **Uruz Rune - Uruz Rune is like a lop sided lower case n. It means he Auroch, which is a wild ox that went extinct in the 17th century. Uruz represents physical, mental strength, and endurance. For men, specifically, it represents manhood.**

 **I chose this rune specifically to foreshadow the changes I'm making from canon. This is not a spoiler, because I already mentioned this in the prologue in my disclaimer.**

 **Anyway, hope you have enjoyed the chapter. This was an interesting one to write, despite it being shorter than most. Next chapter is longer, and hopefully I'll be able to get that out sooner, because I'm at an arc in the story that I just want to finish so I can get to the moment of time skipping.**

 **Also, I'll be releasing the link to my pinterest for the story soon, which features songs, muse/inspiration images, and face claims that play the OCs.**

 **~CB**


	9. 8: The Rite of Passage

**Master of My Sea**

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 **A massive thank you to everyone and your lovely reviews! It's very encouraging :3**

 **With the new season starting up, I'm wondering what people's opinions of it are? If you can refrain from spoilers in the reviews, or you can message me and we can talk about it ^-^**

 **I will say that Freydis' introduction is giving me ideas for the future of this series, and Bishop Heahmund is giving me life! I absolutely love Jonathan Rhys Meyers, he's a beautiful actor, and Tudors is one of my favourite history dramas, next to vikings. I might have already written a fanfiction in my head XD but, if I do come to that, it wont be for a while, and I want to learn more about his character. And! I might just make it a spin off to this series.**

 **anywhoozle. Hope you enjoy.**

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chapter eight:  
 **THE RITE OF PASSAGE**

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"Firstly, I want to announce that we leave for Paris in 3 weeks to the day."

This statement was the first catalyst to a long string of new beginnings that day in Kattegat. When Ragnar announced that they would officially leave for Paris in nearly a moon's time, the energy in the Longhouse bloomed tenth fold. Kára had sat next to Ivar at the table, looking up towards the two thrones where Ragnar and Aslaug were seated. The house was full of people drinking and eating, and bustling servants and slaves weaved through everyone to fill horns of ale or mead, or bring bread and cheese to a table that had run out. Kára understood why her mother hated attending crowded evenings such as this, especially now that Kattegat hosted many men this midsummer. Namely the self made king, Harald Finehair and his brother Halfdan the Black- neither of which Kára was overly fond of. She heard Harald's ambitions was to become king of all Norway, which meant that he was an enemy of Ragnar, even though he did not act like it, and that put her on edge. He had a plan of some sort, and his appearance now that Ragnar is not at his full strength was a little too convenient.

It wasn't her day; the noise, the crowd, the everything, was making her feel ill. She had tried to eat, but found herself at a loss for appetite, and instead was nursing a cup of warm mead in hopes it would soothe her stomach.

Ragnar had more plans that night other than to announce the date of when they'd depart; he called upon his two youngest sons, Sigurd, and Ivar, and bestowed upon them their arm rings. It was then that Kára lifted up her head and watched in mild envy as the boys beamed at their marks of finally being a man. As a girl, she would not receive an arm ring, a fact that had bothered her more than it should. The arm ring marked a warrior to its king, but she was more interested in the warrior part. That part was complicated; she could not be a viking if she could not go out to sea, even if she was allowed an arm ring, but it was her dream nonetheless.

Regardless of her feelings, she offered Ivar a small smile of pride as he came crawling back to his spot and marveled at the gift he was given.

"Do you think this means he will take me to Paris?" He asked, his fingers running across the intricate designs.

"Do you think Queen Aslaug will let you?" Kára asked out loud, then took a sip of her mead. It came out harsher than she intended, which she quickly realized by the furrowed brow on Ivar's forehead. But his expression just stemmed from the realization that she was right. His mother would never let him go.

Kára glanced over at the king and queen, and saw that they exchanged a few words; words Aslaug did not take kindly of. She jutted her chin at Ragnar with her eyes sharp as ever, but by the look on the man's face, he did not care. He collapsed on his throne with his horn, and ignore her snarl. When she turned away from him, Aslaug's eyes caught Kára's and the poisonous look she had was startling. She did not know if the look was just the residue of her conversation with Ragnar, or if in some part it was directed at her. Either way, it did not matter, because her eyes were already off of her in the same second.

Ivar's fingers moved from the arm ring to the rune around his neck as his thoughts began to wonder with the white noise of chatter in the hall. It seemed to grow ever since Ragnar had spoken; spirits were easily lifted when summer made the days grow longer and the promises of epic raids in new lands were just on the horizon. Everyone seemed in a fairly good mood, including Ivar. Everyone, except for the girl who sat beside him, who was making designs with the crumbs of bread on her plate.

Kàra had a permanent frown on her face.

Ever since that day at the beach, Kára's attitude had changed, but in a slow decline. The first time Ivar saw her after that day, she was more aloof than normal, but she was quickly thrown into the work of training that eventually things went back to normal. Ivar decided not to question her about it, mostly, because it was an area that he didn't know how to approach. Besides, if the situation were reversed, he would have appreciated not having the topic brought up.

Just when things were going back normal, Kára's attitude became bleeker and more harsh. If something happened, she wasn't telling him, and he didn't want to press, mostly out of fear of her screaming until his ear bleeds.

"Did you see Sigurd's arm ring?" Ivar began talking, his fingers back to playing with his bracelet. "It's not as nearly as beautiful as mine. He's got some wonky looking lizard heads on the ends, and mine-"

"They're not lizards," Kára sighs irritably, and pulls her head up from her folded arms. She glanced over at Sigurd, who was standing far enough that he could not hear them. "They're dragons, because of his namesake."

"No, mine are-"

"Yours are snakes," she pointed out, looking over to Ivar, her tone flat.

Ivar's mouth fell in a firm line as he rolled his eyes and curled his fingers into his palm. Her words and unexplained rancorous tone was testing his patience at this time. Ivar was having a rather good day; his father bestowing this arm ring to him made it so. It was more than a symbol, but an acknowledgement from a man he respected more than anyone, and the ring was also a crowning jewel of achievement.

And Kára was ruining his pleasant day.

"Why must you ruin this? This is important to me," He asks in a firm, yet low tone so their words were only heard between them. Not that it would be noticeable through the loud laughing and drunken singing.

"It's important to you, to be better than Sigurd?" She asks, her brows twisting in a furrow.

"No," Ivar nearly rolled his eyes. "What is important to me is this arm ring… I have been looking forward to this day, for a long time, and you act like a sour old crone."

"How do you wish me to react, Ivar? Every boy in Norway is given an arm ring when he becomes of age. It is not an act of great feat or an accomplishment."

Agitated at her apathy and offended by her words, Ivar's voice rose a tad higher as he scrutinized her fully. It was obvious, more so after her words, why she was so bitter this evening. He turned his body fully to her and picked up his mug of mead.

"I see what the problem is," he lifted his shoulders in a shrug as he continued. "You are jealous. You are jealous that you will never be given an arm ring… Because you are a girl. Girls do not have rites of passages, like we men do, and" he leaned into his cup and took a loud, obnoxious sip. "We all know how much you wish you were one."

Ivar wasn't one to regret many things, especially whatever came out of his mouth, however, this was different. He felt the dread ripple through his flesh the moment Kára's head turned to him agonizingly slow, and the lethal look in her eye was alike the glare of Fenrir when he was tricked into his chains.

And poor Ivar happened to be Týr, with his hand in her mouth.

Kára's hand curled around her hot drinking horn; she felt the muscles in her arms and fingers twitch, and as she was just about to toss the content's right into Ivar's face, a hand landed on her shoulder and a familiar voice brought her back to reality.

"Kára," The girl in question looked up to see the disapproving look of her mother, her face partially hidden under that red cloak. When had she arrived was one question, how she came in unnoticed with another. It was as if she wore a cloak of invisibility until she chose to reveal herself. Her sudden presence did not go unnoticed now that she had spoken, especially by those that were closest. Chatter had quieted a fraction, but there was still white noise in the longhouse.

Kára's eyes shifted from her mother to over to the dais where the King was staring openly at the Red Woman with a look of surprise, but it was nothing in comparison to the look on the Queen's face. Ragnar immediately stood from his throne and walked down the dais, which had quieted the longhouse completely.

"You came," he pointed out. "I did not think you would."

Hulda's hands moved from her daughter's shoulder and crossed it with the other on her lap, "I have not attended a Thing in quite some time. And," her eyes moved with ease towards the woman sitting in the other throne. "It is about time to see old friends."

Aslaug's mouth shrunk to a firm line before it forced itself to smile. Knowing what was expected to her, she pulled herself from the throne and joined her husband in front of Hulda. These two women had not stood in front of each other since Siggy had died, which felt like a hundred years ago. However, despite the pleasant smiles, there was a toxic air that began to suffocate those that were next to them.

"Hulda, my friend," Aslaug's teeth flashed in a wider smiler and her arms reached up to take the other woman's forearms; Hulda did the same. "It is a pleasure, an honour, and a delight that you have come to visit Kattegat."

Ragnar reached to his harness where his horn of wine was, and took a large gulp.

"This visit will be prolonged, my friend," Hulda's smile was gentle, but her eyes were knowing. She could read through Aslaug's fake words and smiles, but her heart carried no ill will for the woman. After many years of isolation, Hulda mourned the loss of their friendship, and the woman Aslaug used to be. Aslaug had become a bitter person, a spiteful queen, and a lonely soul, who had nothing but her sons and an estranged marriage.

"In light of the forthcoming raids to Paris," the witch's voice grew louder for all to hear. "I will bring counsel, wisdom, and anything I can give in aid to this great return."

There was a roar of applause; pitchers being hit against wooden tables, drunken shouts, cheers, and hands drumming on surfaces. A reaction that was predictable and justified, and yet it greatly displeased Aslaug. The queen strongly considered herself a woman of magic, often claiming to be völva aswell, but the title had never stuck. Aslaug was a married woman and chose to only use her shamanistic gifts for herself, her family, and to gain status rather than aid and help others. Because of this, she could not be wand-wed, and as a result no one saw her as a völva, not even her husband. Aside from that, Aslaug had prided herself to be a great aid to her husband's ambitions, and the raids that had profited Kattegat for years. So, the grand applause for Hulda felt like a slap in the face.

It seemed Ragnar knew how much this would wound her pride, because he put insult to injury when he moved over and offered his seat at the throne to Hulda. The Red Woman took his seat graciously and without hesitation. With great dissatisfaction, Aslaug sat next to her. The tension was as thick as the boar that was served that evening, but aside from the unsuspecting guests that continued to drown themselves in ale and mead, only Ragnar seemed not to be bothered with it. In fact, the smirk he hid behind the rim of his cup showed he was amused by it.

Ivar was aware of the awkwardness as well, so much that his earlier dispute with Kára had been forgotten. His brow furrowed in confusion when his father had offered the woman his seat, but did not question it. He remembered Floki's words about respecting the völur, and that it was common for them to be treated as nobles when they enter a stronghold.

Kára was less confused about how they treated her mother, and more about the dynamic between her mother and Queen Aslaug. She shared a look with Ragnar who passed behind her, and disappeared into the crowd to join Floki and his oldest son on the other end. It was as if he planted the seeds of a chaotic event and just left for it to grow and blossom on its own. The ominous feeling in her stomach had intensified the more she looked about the longhouse and felt that it would soon become the scene of a pandamonium.

She sensed a change in the wind.

The girl moved her legs over the bench and stood up from her seat. Ivar's attention was brought back to her in that moment, and noticed her demeanor changed dramatically. Her face was hard, but not angry, almost worried, but also calculating.

"What is wrong?"

Kára ignore him and walked up the dais and over to Hulda's side, "Mother, I'm ready to go home."

Hulda looked at her strangely and reached up to touch her face, finding it a bit warm. "Are you ill, my child?"

"She had been drinking hot mead all evening," Aslaug answered, bringing her goblet to her lips idly. "The drink can go straight to your head if you drink it too fast, my dear."

Hulda looked at Aslaug, almost making a comment about how she would know best, but kept her lips closed. Her attention went back to her daughter, and brushed her fingers through her hair and tucked it behind her ear.

"Why don't you sit on my lap, sweet dove, and rest your head. We were just about to talk about old times," Hulda's voice was gentle and lulling, enough to calm Kára for her to relent and slowly ease around the arm rest and relax in her mother's lap. The warmth that radiated off of her was comforting, but she was also facing Aslaug and that made her feel small.

Hulda draped her arm around the girl, her long sleeve acting like a blanket over her legs, but also like a shield. Her attention drew back to her old, estranged friend, who looked different yet the same. Those high cheekbones, sharp eyes, full lips, and long neck did not change. Aslaug had always been an exceptional beauty, to a degree of unworldliness. It was not a shock that she drew Ragnar's attention. However, the lines in her face not only betrayed age, but stress. Aslaug was not a happy woman; Hulda remembered that light of happiness faded away when she was pregnant with Ivar, and what was left died the first year of his painful life.

Aslaug openly examined the mother and daughter sitting beside her. Her lips twitched, threatening to fold into a frown. There was some jealousy in her, but the origin of it was ambiguous. At a certain extent, she envied that Hulda had a daughter, and she did not. She was blessed with four sons, all who would become as great as their father, which was a great gift from the gods. However, that was a gift to Ragnar, and not her. A daughter, whom she can impart her divine wisdom to, would be a gift to herself. Ivar, her youngest, was beginning to pull away from her, as most boys do from their mothers. With daughters, the bond lasted far longer. Ivar and kára were roughly the same age, and yet the times when he sat on her lap had long passed.

Aslaug gave a sigh as her twitching lips gave in and pulled into a falsely kind smile, "Motherhood has always suited you, Hulda. You remind me so much of your mother, it is as if I'm sitting next to her right now."

Despite the deceptive smile, Hulda appreciated the comparison. Torunn was a fierce, maternal woman. She had taken care of many children, not only her own, and both her magic and strength weaved into one. While Hulda's father often left them to raid with their earl's warband, Torunn remained untouchable. She was a sow, protecting her cubs. Much was learned by her; Hulda learned a great deal of magic and the gods from her, and Sigrún had adopted their mother's strength and surpassed her skill in such a short amount of time. During her mother's twilight years, Sigrún had taken the position of protector, since many deviants had taken advantage of Torunn's weaken state.

"It is a shame you did not have more children," Aslaug had added after the beat of silence. This time her eyes were casted down to her hands, that cradled her goblet in her lap. That comment was not as appreciated.

"The gods had a plan for me," Hulda replied, her fingers stroking the knee of her daughter. "It took some time and sacrifice for me to realize that, but the path to our destiny is never laid out evenly for any of us."

"Your words hold great wisdom. I do not know if I would have taken to your losses as gracefully as you have done, Hulda," these words were the most honest that Aslaug had spoken. When her eyes lifted from her goblet and onto the Red Woman, they were softer, as if the past had caught up with her and pulled her heart into a bittersweet embrace of regret and sadness. "I've never formally given you my condolences. It had broken my heart hearing of Sigrún, as you know she was like a sister to me. And for your dear Ulf, I wept when I learned of his death. However, it is Eirik's sacrifice that had grieved me the most. He had saved my life and the life of my sons."

Kára's ears had perked. She had begun to relax, and almost drift off, but the moment that name was mentioned, the muscles in her body stiffened. She recognized the name when Bjorn had mentioned it, and given that who ever Eirik was, was close to her father, the chances that Aslaug was talking about anyone else was slim. It had surpass curiosity at this point; what Kára felt was suspicion.

"Who is Eirik?" The girl spoke this burning question.

Hulda had also stiffened, because the answer to that question was something she had thought she ever had to answer, nor thought she had the needed to. Though now, of all times, it had presented itself in a less than perfect setting. Aslaug's eyes shot towards Kára like lightning from the surprise. Her mouth opened to answer, but found no words to form. The queen looked back at Hulda.

"You've never told her?"

Those words were enough to make Kára rise from her place in her mother's lap. Her heart began to pump in anticipation, and the uncomfortable ache in her stomach bloomed.

Her wide, teal eyes fluttered between the two woman, "Never told me what?... Mother?"

Hulda's mouth was partially agape, her eyes slightly panicked at the sudden calamity of the situation. The brief suspicion of Aslaug having planned this was not lost on her, but she doubted how much the woman even knew how Hulda raised her daughter.

But, it would seem that regardless of how little Aslaug knew of the situation, she was going to manipulate it with the pieces that were given to her.

The queen looked at Kára with a calm expression, her body sitting straight in order to be leveled with the girl, who stood before the thrones. "Child, Eirik is your brother."

Hulda's mouth clamped shut, her temper rising at the audacity of Aslaug's insensitive interference. With the girl's mother sitting right there, it was not her job to out this information. It wasn't hers to tell in any situation or setting, unless Hulda was incapable doing it herself. Though, on some dark level, that was done with purpose. Had it come out of the lips of Hulda, the truth wouldn't be much of a blow, but coming out of the mouth of a third party made it so much worst. In the end, it had the desired effect.

Kára acted accordingly; she was already in a sour mood, Aslaug had noted earlier, and she used that as a tool to put Hulda in her place. It was petty, but the queen wouldn't admit to the malevolent intention she had. It was true, though, she did not know the level of Kára's ignorance of her mother's past, but it was an opportunity she took advantage of. Hulda had always presented herself perfectly, and the closeness she had with her daughter reignited the fire under Aslaug. She was sorely reminded of how much envy she had for her old friend, even as they were children. All of Aslaug's sons do not respect her in the way she would like; Ubbe had grown out of her quickly and looked up more to his half brother, Bjorn, than he did his own mother, and Hvitserk was no different. Sigurd was falling out of her fingers at a rapid pace and she could feel the coldness from him as the seasons go by. Ivar was her one and only, and yet he threatened to pull himself away from her, especially ever since he met Hulda's daughter. In the Queen's mind, it wasn't fair.

Kára's eyes were wide and wild as she whipped her head towards her mother. The conversation was quiet enough to not gain an audience by their patrons, but by the sheer volume of a small girl's voice, the longhouse silenced almost immediately and all heads turned to the dais.

"What more have you been keeping from me, mother?! Is there any more family members you are keeping from me?"

"Kára, you must understand-" Hulda sat up straight and tried to take her daughter's hands, but the girl pulled away.

"I am tired of your words," her voice was lower, her face twisted in anger and her eyes began to water. "I'm tired of you," she stepped off the dais in a sprint, pushing through large bodies to make it towards the exit.

Hulda immediately pulled herself from the throne and picked up her skirts. The crowd immediately parted for her to pass, but the moment that she reached the door where Kára had disappeared, a body blocked her path and a hand pressed against her shoulder.

"Let me pass, Ragnar!"

"Look at me," he whispered in a commanding voice. " _I said look at me_."

His tone was startling enough for her to quickly turn her face to him. In this moment, in the shine of his bright blue eyes, Hulda could see the man Ragnar had always been. They were clear and dominate, like they were the day she met him.

"Let her go," the king muttered.

"She needs me," Hulda's voice was soft and desperate.

Ragnar shook his head slightly, "You need her."

The völva's jaw hardened before it slacked, and in a final moment of defeat, she brought her gaze down to the floor as she stepped away from Ragnar.

 **x x x**

Her head and chest felt heavy, but her feet felt light. The speed behind her legs carried her right through Kattegat within minutes, but that wasn't without effort. Tears blinded her, and in her hysterics she paid little attention to obstacles or the direction she was going. At some point she heard yelling as something fell in a clatter behind her, but it was all moot to her.

Kára's breathing became laboured as she soon realized she had been running uphill. Angrily, she rubbed the tears from her blurred eyes by the sleeve of her tunic and looked around to where she was. The trees were sparse as they grew on the side of the cliffside she had been running up. From where she stood, she could see the city, lit up by sconces and lanterns littered around. The sun had fully set by now, which blanketed the sky in dark purple. Few stars were out that night, due to the heavy clouds that slowly rolled by. Kára growled once she remembered what brought her here, and her determination to distance herself from her mother came back. Now on all fours, she scaled the incline of the cliff.

Eventually the the top could be seen, and just there sitting in the hollow of the sloping fields was a quaint wooden cabin with a faint orange hearthlight peeking through the cracks. She knew of this place, for some reason. An image of herself, much smaller than she was now, stood in front of that threshold in the arms of her mother. A voice, deep, raspy, and ancient, invited them in.

Kára heard that voice once more when she stood in front of that wooden door. Her was frozen and her stomach still ached, but her hands moved on their own as they pushed it open. The inside was dark, save for the small hearthfire. It was enough to see the vertebrae hanging on threads from the ceiling, and the stag, goat, and ram heads that decorated the walls. Inside smelled like burning herbs and medicine, but also a dampness that could only be associated with something very old.

She saw him there, sitting upon his bed of furs and wool, just by the light of his pale face that was tainted by black upon his thin lips. The muscle of his brow was thick and pulled over where his eyes would have been, and left only tiny holes that could do nothing to aid his vision.

"I knew I would see you again, Kára Ulfsdóttir," he was facing her direction, and yet there was no way he knew it was her unless he foresaw it.

"You know who I am?" She at some point closed the door behind her, and now found herself walking around the bed, and sat herself in front of him.

"You have met me once," his face followed her as she moved. "But I have met you several times before."

Kára furrowed her brow, "What does that mean?"

"It means exactly how it sounds," he breathed.

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Hulda had told her about the Seer and his riddles and vague predictions, and how it frustrated more than helped people. At least she spoke truth at least once.

"So tell me, Daughter of Ulf, why have you come to me this evening?"

Kára looked around the room once again, and then at her hands. She lifted her shoulders and sighed, "I'm not sure. I just ran here."

The Seer made some sort of sound of understanding, and in the dark she could see his black mouth stretch into a smile, "I know why you are here. You are here, because you seek knowledge of yourself, that which your mother has been unwilling to share with you."

His words immediately perked her up, "Will you tell me?"

"I can tell you what I am allowed to tell you," he replied flatly. "The gods gave me permission to answer your questions to a degree. The rest is not for me to tell you."

"Who could answer those questions, if not you? My mother?"

"No," he replied lowly, "The only person that could answer those questions is the woman in the water."

 _The woman in the water?_ Kára's mind was frantic was questions. She had a feeling that by the time she left the house, she would only get more questions than answers. "How many questions can I ask you?"

The Seer breathed loudly through his mouth and nose, and then turned towards the ceiling blindly. After a moment or two he turned his head back down towards her, "Three."

Kára bit her lip and looked around the room again in thought. There were many questions she needed answers to, but to prioritize three was difficult.

"Why did my father kill himself?"

"Your father killed himself, because he had shadows in his mind that would not leave him alone. They reached for the best parts of him from all corners of his body. One day when he acquired a truth he could not handle and that was when those shadows took control of his legs and feet, and walked him to the lake, where he always felt at peace, and drowned him in ice and darkness."

Kára pursed her lips and looked down at her hands. Her face felt hot, and her nose tingled as the threat of tears came once again. Her twitching fingers reached up to her face as she roughly rubbed her eyes and took a shaky breath in attempt to steady her quivering throat and lungs.

"What was the truth he was told?"

The Seer hesitated before speaking, "The gods have decided that is not for me to share."

She bent her head down and rubbed the area between her eyebrows in frustration. Again, her mind began to frantically collect the many questions she had, but she found herself prioritizing questions that perhaps not even her mother would know.

"I've been having dreams that I'm in a battlefield; first I am flat on my black on a field of grass, and blood is all over my face. When I get up, I see a man with blue eyes charging at me. Just before I feel his sword in my stomach, I wake up. Why do I keep dreaming about this?"

"You are seeing your death," his answer was simple and blunt, but it made Kára's blood run cold once the realization sunk in.

Death was an inevitability, and many men look forward to it, especially if they are to die on the battlefield. However, what made it less frightening was not knowing when, where, or how it would happen, it was not knowing at all. Having that knowledge, it seemed for Kára, made it all the more frightening. Truthfully, she had not pictured herself dying on the battlefield, since she was not a fighter. She had thought she would die as a result of a wolf or bear attack, or from old age by sheer stubbornness of unwillingness to die. But as a child herself, death still seemed like a fairy tale, and aside from animals, she had not seen a human being die in front of her to show the frailty of mortality.

"Why does the water terrify me?"

"Because," he breathed heavily. "Water is your grave."

Kára blinked at him and opened her mouth before closing it. She didn't understand him. He just told her that she was going to die in a battlefield, surrounded by plains of grass, and now he says that water is her grave.

"You just told me that-"

"Your three questions have been answered, child," he moved his limbs closer to himself as he prepared to curl back onto the bed of furs. "The gods have allowed those answers, and it is wise not to become greedy of knowledge, unless you are willing to give up an eye for it."

"Please, just one more question! Will I be like my father?"

The Seer paused and peered at her through the holes in the skin folds of his face. The cabin was filled with the gentle crackle of hearthfire, and the clinking of river rocks and bones brushing together from the gentle wind that slipped through the cracks of the wood.

"Your future has not been released to me, Kára Ulfsdóttir. Not even Freya is privy to your fate… Only you must decide who you want to be: defined by the past, or designed for the future. Your decision, my girl, begins on the night of the Blood Moon."

Kára blinked slowly as she processed his words to the best of her ability. Her young mind could not fully comprehend the meaning of them, but she knew that clear answers were not going to be given to her. In a small voice, she asked her final question, "When will that be?"

His head declined in a slight bow, his hood casting large shadows across his disfigured face. "It has already begun."

Right then, a sharp pain hit Kára's abdomen, as if she had been stabbed. Like lightning, it shot down her spine and lit her core on fire. It was a pain like she had never felt before.

* * *

 **So, unlike boys, women never had a rite of passage where'd they were given an armring as a symbol of their coming of age and their loyalty to their stronghold. But this is because girls have their own rite of passage already, and that is ... you guessed it, their period.**

 **Now a heads up, the next chapter is 100% Kara, but it's really important for everyone to read it. I've written fics before where people completely skip over a chapter just because it doesn't have the romantic pairing in it at all, or they skip the flashbacks. This irritates me the most, because not only are these people missing massive plot and character developments, but I worked hard and took time to write this, and only have it completely skipped over.**

 **Chapter nine is a very important chapter. Chapter ten will mark the end of this first story arc once I hammer the last couple of nails in it, which means 10 and 11 will probably be very long.**

 **Also, all of the Seer's riddles will be unraveled with time. :) I like to keep things mysterious and shadowy.**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**

 **~CB**


	10. 9: The Blood Moon

**Master of My Sea**

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 **I know, it's been _84 yeaaarrsss._ It's been a very, work-stressed couple of months, and muse-killing as well. Not to mention chapter ten is like, 8,000 words long. Anyway, I want to thank you all for your patience, and for your amazing reviews! I nearly got discouraged, because for the longest time I got none after the last chapter. **

**Also, this is a forewarning - this chapter does not have Ivar in it. It is a 100% Kara chapter. I know for a fact that there is going to be two handfuls of my readers that are going to skip this chapter entirely, and I really, really, really, really, really wish you wont, because it's such an important chapter to me, and to the story. The prologue is explained in the chapter, and just overall it's a massive character development for the main OC.**

 **Chapter ten is a massive chapter that has many stuff happening in it; full of feels, full of reveals. I'm excited about it. Hopefully I can finish chapter eleven fast enough so I can publish it.**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoy. At the end of the chapter, I explain a few things that are mentioned in this chapter!  
**

 **Oh, and one more thing - They will age up in 2-3ish chapters (i hope) after chapter 10.**

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chapter nine:  
 **THE BLOOD MOON**

* * *

The moon was full and red in the sky. It's false sunlight was her only light in the darkness of the night. No stars could be seen that evening; the clouds seemed to pile themselves in the sky in thick clusters. It was only the blood moon that could be seen glowing through the curtains of clouds. There was very little to help navigate the environment, especially in the forest. Kára had lost direction the moment she fled the Seer's hut with her arm clutching her stomach as if she had been stabbed. In her pain and hysterics, she didn't consider the direction she was going until she found herself in the eerie quietness of the forest. The red alder and birch trees jutted out of the earth like spikes in perfect alignment. Everything looked the same.

Kára stopped running and whipped her head around, expecting to see something she recognized. The left, the right, behind her, and in front of her all looked the same. White-barked trees surrounded her. She looked up and saw that the sky was nearly cloaked entirely in dark grey clouds; there were no stars to help her find her way back, the only thing left in the sky was the blood moon.

Pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes, she cursed herself at being so stupid. Kára let out a groan of pain as the scorching heat in her abdomen increased, causing her to buckle onto the floor on her knees.

What was this pain? Why was she feeling it? Was she dying?

Kára curled into herself on the floor with her hands between her legs, and whimpered and cried through the wave of pain. It felt like hot pokers were scraping her insides slowly and continuously. What was this curse? What was this disease? How could she make it stop? Her body was on fire, while being maimed and flayed from the inside out. And while her body was in pain, her mind was frantic with jumbles of thoughts and emotions. Words echoed in her mind while a headache bloomed at her temples, and with it came her anger and frustration.

With her teeth gnawing on her lip to stop herself from crying out in pain, Kára remained in the soil in a fetal position. Time had passed, but she didn't know for how long. She might have fallen asleep at some point, but she couldn't be sure. The pain had slowed down to a dull ache, but still too uncomfortable to warrant a move from her spot. Sleep must have taken her, because a crack of thunder had shook her to full consciousness. When her eyes snapped open, the forest was blanketed in fog and the wind that wafted through the alder and birch trees carried a dampness.

A storm was coming.

Kára uncurled herself from the ground and stood up slowly. Her entire body felt stiff and sore, but whether that was from her running for as long and as fast as she did, or from the assault on her organs, she didn't know. The girl took a deep breath and looked up at the sky once again, but it was still too hard to see. The moon lurked behind the moving clouds, but it was bright enough to see the light of its existence. The world might be filled with fog in that moment, but right now she was thinking a little bit more clearly.

The moon, where it stood, it was not centered. And the trees- there was moss growing on them from the spring showers. That was north. Now, all she had to do was follow the moon's direction, to the west, and she would find the river, or the lake.

With this plan in mind, Kára sighed a shaky breath and ran her fingers through her hair only to feel something wet once her tips touched her forehead. Slowly she brought hand down to eye level, but in the dark her hand appeared completely black. She rubbed her fingers together to feel the thick moist substance. It was just then that the clouds moved away from the pale light of the moon, which casted a perfect light upon her fingers, and the first thing Kára saw was red. Her entire hand was coated in clotted blood.

Kára's immediate reaction was that at some point she bumped her head without realizing it, so she went to reach her forehead with her other hand only for her to see the blood coated on that one as well. The pain gradually began to return to her stomach, and suddenly she felt the warmth drain from her veins. Slowly, she lowered her hands to between her legs and immediately felt the hot, soaking fabric of her trousers.

"No," she uttered. Panic began to pump her heart rapidly.

She was a healer's daughter. Most girls wouldn't know what was going on, but Kára knew where the blood was coming from. It wasn't an open wound, it wasn't from another creature.

" _..._ _on the night of the Blood Moon"_

The girl's head whipped back at the moon, red as it ever was with a halo of light around it. The face of Máni engraved into the surface of the moon stared back at her through a veil of blood. As Kára stared back into the face of the god, she could hear a whisper at the back of her mind that wasn't her own voice.

 _They're coming…_

In that moment, she heard in the distance a chorus of howls that came from the east.

 _Run._

Another crack of thunder vibrated the ground, and a groan in the clouds betrayed the sound of the first fall of rain.

Kára didn't question the voice, nor had any reason to linger. She immediately sprung into a sprint north-west, ignoring the pummelling of rain on the top of her head. The trees around her turned into white blurs, and the fog that enveloped the terrain whipped by her like smoke. It still blinded her, though, and on more than one occasion she nearly collided with a tree, or misplaced a step and found herself tumbling over a rock or raised earth. Not once did she fall, despite the ground becoming slick with water. She could hear the wolves' pads running through grass and mud behind her, with the smell of blood on their noses.

 _These are not normal wolves_ , she thought frantically. They sounded larger, they sounded faster, they sounded closer than they actually were. They were the ones who internally chased the chariots of Máni and Sól: Hati and Sköll.

The sound of her feet pounded against the moist earth, but in her mind the sound was akin to the trampling of racing horses, pulling a chariot at rapid speeds. The trees began to thicken and change from Alder and Birch to thick spruce trees, which meant she was closer north. The air became lighter as the earth began to rise well above the sea, which made Kára pump her legs harder to keep her pace. However, the floor suddenly depressed and with the fog blocking most of her view, and the rain and dirt mixing into slick mud, Kára slipped and slid and rolled down the hill and landed harshly into the prickly branches of a spruce.

Kára hissed in pain as her hand flew to her eyes to make sure they didn't get assaulted by the pricks of the tree. Aside from a few shallow scrapes on her cheeks and mud, her face was thankfully fine. However, her stomach still ached, her womanhood still bled through her trousers, and the fall had hit her bones and muscles harshly. The rumble of thunder through the sound of wind and rain brought her back to reality, and her eyes shot over to the overhang of ground where she had fell from. The flash of lightning betrayed their shadows against the wall of trees. Larger than horses. Teeth as long as daggers. Bodies thin and starved for a meal they have been hunting for since the dawn of time.

Her brain began to scramble as did her body. She threw herself into the mud and rolled around in it until she was covered in it from head to toe. Only her eyes shone through the dark brown muck that coated and shielded her from the wolves' eyes and noses. Kára then began to crawl away quickly until she was able to pull herself from all fours and continue sprinting. She had lost the moon in the thicket and clouds, but at this point she continued foreword regardless of what direction she was going. With the earth now completely soft, running was proving even more difficult, but the forest was beginning to thicken, the trees were larger, and it gave her more room for evasion.

What felt like an eternity went by when she started to feel the terrain begin to descend once again, and the sound of the rain hitting the surface of the water met her ears. It echoed, which meant it was a large body of water. Never in her life had she felt so exhilarated to see that god awful lake. At least now, she knew where she was, but, there was still one obstacle that remained.

The rippling reflection of the moon reminded her of the animals that chased her. The rain had washed out any noise that the wolves could have made behind her, but as she halted at the water's edge, she looked behind her and saw absolutely nothing. No shadows, no movement, aside from the winds rustling the spruce branches. Sighing, Kára felt every muscle in her body relax and then ache as the adrenaline started to die down. Her mouth, contrary to the weather, was dry from her lungs pumping air through her nose and out of her mouth.

She stood in the clearing and leaned her head back with her mouth open, allowing the rain to fill it with water. After Kára finished nursing from the sky, she pulled her attention back at the lake, blacker and more alive than she had ever witnessed it. It was as if it was the bed of Jörmungandr himself, and he thrashed violently underneath from the sound of Thor's hammer beating the sky.

She needed shelter, Kára realized, but she could not hide in the trees. The lightning was close, and she couldn't risk the chance of getting hit if she climbed into a tree or being out in the open. Blinking wildly against the rain, she made a quick observation of the landscape, as hard as it was in the dark and rain. Her eyes adjusted by the nightfall, though, and still could see the forms of land against the backdrop of murky clouds. The land rose around the lake further south, she observed, which meant there must be some kind of cave or overhang at the water's edge.

Kára retreated back into the forest to shield herself from the rain, then slowly climbed the terrain that bordered the body of water. She kept low to the ground, making sure that her body didn't become a beacon for Thor's hammer. The girl looked up for a moment, and saw the moon high in the sky hidden behind a curtain of clouds, but its brightness shone through. The red colour came as an orange-yellow through the clouds, which casted an unearthly light on the slick black waters of the lake.

After some time, she had stopped when she met a dent in the grass where the storm water collected, creating a natural trough that lead into a small waterfall that cascaded over the rim of a large rock hidden under grass, earth, and roots. Kára scaled down the side of the overhang, her feet dipping into the shallows of the lake for a moment before she scrambled underneath the rock. Underneath was more spacious than she had thought would be there, but it was crowded with tangled roots and river rocks that had washed up underneath. However, it was as dry as she could possibly get, given the situation, and she had to make do. In an attempt to make it more comfortable, she clawed at the available soil and created something to rest her head, and then moved the river rocks around her body to help delay any rise of the water. Kára had no idea how well she would be able to sleep there, but the rock over her shielded her from the storm and from any predators that might be lurking in the forest still. Hopefully, come morning, she will have a better idea of where she is and how to get home, if she was even close to it.

With a sigh, Kára laid down in her uncomfortable makeshift bed and stared out at the lake through the curtain of water falling above her head. Her heart was still pumping from the chaotic night she had just endured, but under the security of the earth, her adrenaline began to leave her system. Eventually, she fell into an uneasy sleep to the sound of running water, and the lullaby of Thor's hammer breaking into the sky.

 **x x x**

 _She watched him from the clouds, walking across that marble surface of the lake. His steps were slow, due to his bare feet protesting against the frozen terrain. A dance of wind and snow whipped through her hair and eyes, but from the balcony of Asgard, she could see all so clearly. She could see the face of Rán underneath the water with her net, ready and waiting for her next victim to reach the weakest part of the ice. The licks of shadows danced with her, opening up the entrance to Hel, to welcome it's newest arrival._

 _This was no battle, and this was no death worthy of Valhalla. She remained in the clouds, her anxiety fueling the raging storm that crippled Kattegat and it's residence. But, he walked through it, determined to allow the lake to consume him. The place of his solace, his sanctuary, where many days he floated on his back and stared at the clouds will become his final resting place. She could see the fight in him was over; he could no longer pull himself from the tentacles of his own personal kraken._

 _The gods had decided that this would be his fate, but it was not fitting to the man he was. She would not allow him to go, not yet. Gods be damned, she flew from her perch and cut through the clouds like a shooting star through the night sky, and landed gracefully upon her bare feet on the crystalline surface before him. She watched with tears collected in her eyelashes, as he opened his eyes and looked upon her. There was recognition in this deep, green eyes, but he held no surprise in them. They were red and dreary; the pain written in his irises told a story as old as he was. His dark hair was dusted by snow flakes, as were his eyelashes and eyebrows, and it blended well with his greying skin. He was halfway to death already._

" _What are you doing?"_

 _Her voice was a gentle bell to his ears; a comforting sound to the beating of the wind in his ear. Her warmth and presence tinted his cheeks pink, and he wanted nothing more than to embrace her, and bring her light into his heart. She waited for him to answer, hoping that her interference would somehow make him turn back. However, his answer was just as hollowing as the tears that streamed down the lines of his face like rivers._

" _I don't know."_

 _Her long arm extended to him, her fingers ready to brush off those tears and take him into her arms and bring him to the warm hearth of Valhalla, whether approved by Odin or not. But Rán had other ideas. The ice broke beneath his feet and the lake swallowed him whole. She felt the cold in her veins when she saw his wide, panicked eyes look into hers just before the mouth of death swallowed him._

 _The winds of winter picked up viciously around her, and she could feel the warning of the gods bellowing her name from the skies. She ignored them, and plunged into the lake with her arms stretched out towards him. Rán's net flourished underneath his sinking body, snaking around his limbs slowly. She was just out of reach._

 _His blue lips parted, his last breath and last word slipping out in bubbles that drifted up and got caught in her eyelashes._

" _Sigrún…"_

 **x x x**

A spasm in her muscles caused Kára to rouse from her sleep. For a moment, her vision was blurry, but that was because she had dried tears gluing her lids together. Once she blinked out the dust from her eyes, she knew exactly where she was, and her muscles suddenly felt even more sore than a moment before. Her entire body ached, including her womanhood, which felt like it was on fire. But in comparison of the night prior, Kára could not complain about that.

The water that spilled over the overhang had died down to a drizzle, and the lake receded farther away from the earth. Everything was still soaking wet, including herself, but the sun was out, and the sky did not have a single cloud in it, as if the storm was merely an illusion she made for herself. When Kára pulled herself up, she was now able to get a good look at the state of herself now that there was light. She was covered in mud from head to toe, and a dark stain built up between her legs. With a great sigh, she began to crawl from under the overhang and towards the lake, biting down her instincts to avoid the water.

She felt filthy in a way that she had never felt before. Yes, there were times where she had avoided a bath for weeks at a time, and had got away with wearing dirty clothes, tangled, lice ridden hair, and bare feet that had gone black and green from grass and dirt. Aside from the lice, none of that really had bothered her, but right now it was a new kind of filthy. Her insides were on her outsides, pooling and soiling her thighs and trousers to the point where the smell was just as strong as the smell of mud and earthworms. Once the girl reached the water, she groaned at the feeling of the cold water meeting her sore muscles. Lake water was never the warmest, but she had no luxury of choice. With chattering teeth, she pulled her body like a baby learning how to crawl until the surface reached her chin. Once she pulled her legs flat underneath, she started to peel off articles of clothing, one at a time, until she was completely naked.

After some time, the water was no longer an issue. Her skin became numb to the temperature, and it even killed off the pain that her muscles were in. The first thing she had done was dunk her head under the water, and immediately pull her face out in a gasp. She felt her heart race, thinking at any moment something was going to grab her ankle and pull her further into the lake to lay it next to the corpse of her father. With that morbid thought, she grabbed onto a rock for some kind of false sense of security. After she had finished cleaning her body as much as she could, she took her clothes and began to scrub out the mud from the fabric with a rough sided rock. The dirt leaked from it easily, but the red stains in her trousers did not.

"Shit," Kára cursed in frustration. The back of her hand rubbed her nose as she began to feel it tingle, betraying the sensation of tears developing. Taking a deep breath, she laid out her clothes on a large rock to dry, and then crawled back under the safety of the overhang. There, she waited, with her knees pulled to her chin and her muscles quivering and shaking from the chill of being naked and cold. After some time, whether it was long enough for her garments to completely dry or not no longer mattered, Kára came back out, quickly grabbed her clothes and brought them back in with her.

They were still damp, but they were no longer soaked. She looked pitifully at the red stain at the crotch and cursed again, knowing that it would just grow and become dirty again once she put them on. After some deliberating, she took her tunic and ripped off her sleeves, stretched out the fabric, and managed to craft a pair of undergarments by tying one sleeve around her waist, and one underneath her. After, she immediately put on her trousers and tunic, but opted to keep it untucked as to hide the stain, as if it mattered.

Walking along the shore line of the lake, Kára became acutely aware of just how tired her body was every time she moved her feet across uneven ground. It didn't help that she was getting hungry, but had no means of getting food. She couldn't find any mushrooms, those that were edible anyway, but she saw plenty of minnows swimming in schools in the shallows of the lake. After some time walking, she found herself in the presence of a fishing shack that looked older than her own mother. The small dock was reduced to only poles sticking out of the water, with rotted wood nearly disappearing into the earth as it reached dry land. The shack was more of a skeleton of one. A small tree grew right through it, the roof was in shambles, and the door was pushed out of the way by a fallen tree behind it. The earth was retaking it, and to anyone else, it would simply appear like a pile of garbage, but to Kára it was a sight for sore eyes.

"Thank Thor," she breathed and ran to it, as if it was going to vanish. She squeezed through the the small opening underneath the fallen tree, and began to inspect what little provisions it still had. There wasn't much. There was an cast iron pot in the corner that was housing a family of worms in soil. There was a broken fishing pole with no string, a fishing net, rusted fish hooks scattered on the floor, and a small leather pouch. Immediately Kára grabbed it, hoping there was some fishing string inside, but there wasn't. Inside, however, was flint and steel, with some wool bundled inside. Everything seemed to be dry, which was a miracle, given the storm last night.

Having to make do, Kára began the preparations for what she could do. Digging a pit, barricading it with large rocks, and scrounging up as many dry leaves and branches she could find, which wasn't much. At a point, she took some and laid them out in the sun to dry out. She dumped out the worms and dirt from the cast iron pot, and grabbed the fishing net. Given the high population of minnows, it was not surprising that the net was tightly woven, which meant that who ever owned this shack often caught the small fish, most likely for bait. However, for Kára, she had planned on eating them. With no boat, no proper fishing pole, there was no way she would be able to catch a fish properly. At the very least, she can smoke the minnows and sear them til they were crispy enough to be eaten.

She waded into the shallows until it reached her knees and immediately the fish began to swim away, so the girl remained utterly still with the pot in one hand, and the net in the other. For what felt like an hour, she stood completely still, waiting for the moment that the minnows returned. The silence calmed her; the only sounds were the birds and the gentle lapping of the lake against solid earth. Being as concentrated as she was on the task at hand, her guard was completely down, so the moment she heard the sound of someone walking on the lake rocks along the shore, her blood ran cold in unwanted surprise. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end. Whatever it was, whoever it was, was behind her, and had stopped walking. Kára didn't want to let them know that she knew that they were there; so she bent down as if to scoop up something from the water with her net, but low enough that her head went passed her waist so she could peek between her legs.

The first thing she saw was the bare feet of a man; his soles were dirty and green, and the legs of his trousers were soaking wet. His body was facing the lake as he slowly he bent down and reached into the water with cupped hands and began to drink. The grip Kára had on the iron pot tightened as she slowly pulled herself up. He was close enough that with a well aimed throw, she could hit him with the heavy object and knock him out, and if that didn't do the trick, she would wrap the net around his neck and choke him until he did. However, the moment she turned around, what she saw caused her to yelp in surprise and stumble back in the water with a splash.

There was no man there. There was, instead, the largest wolf that she had ever encountered. His coat was a dark brown, dusted with whites and greys around his neck, large paws, tail and face. He was soaking wet, as if he was caught in the rain last night and the water just clung to his fur the entire time. Her scream and splash did not alert him at all. He drank his fill for a moment longer before pulling his large head from the lake and slowly turning towards the girl, who trembled in the water. Never in her entire life had she wanted to retreat further into the lake as much as she did now, just to add distance and protection between her and this beast.

But then… she met his eyes and froze. Many times she had looked into the eyes of wolves, and saw many kinds of colours. Silver, blue, amber, and olive green. However, this beast's was vibrant and green like a solarstone sitting on a bed of summer moss. The strangest thing was that the fear washed away from her nerves, and there was no unsettling sensation when she held the animal's stare. Instead, what she had was a sense of familiarity, of comfort, of warmth, of safety.

"Father?"

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 **Right, so before I get into some history/mythology lessons you may or may not know about, I just want to announce something: I have a writing tumblr now! At the moment, it's mostly Viking drabbles (and smut) at the moment. Cant promise how often ill post in it, but if you ever need a fix, just take a read. I also reblog stories from other authors on tumblr that I enjoy, so other people can enjoy as well.**

 **cncevpon dot tumblr dot com.**

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 **Blood moon** \- it's a full lunar eclipse that appears reddish in colour from the sun's filtered light through the earth's atmosphere. There was a big one recently!

 **Máni** \- or "Man in the moon" is the norse personification of the moon. Máni is used in this scenario, because the moon as a god/ess usually protects those in the night by lighting the way. Máni as the blood moon had lead Kára to the lake by making her chase him, and by warning her of the wolves. He comforts and shields her with the darkness of the night, making it hard for those to find her, while using his light to guide her.

 **Sól** \- the norse perfofincation of the sun. Sól is Máni's sister.

 **Árvakr and Alsviðr** \- These are the horses that pull Sól's chariot. I bring this up, because I wrote that kara's feet running sounded like horses pulling a chariot for a reason.

 **Hati & Sköll** \- are the wolves that chase the sun and moon. Ragnarok prophesies that the end of the world will happen when the wolves devour Sól and Máni. Kara's still a child, and in her delirium, she believes these famed wolves are the wolves that chase her. A lot of religious belief at this era stemmed from unstimulated minds and over imagination by primitive human beings, so it's completely justifiable that the environment mixed with her overflowing hormones and pain created the convincing illusion that these wolves were in fact the infamous wolves that were destined to kill the sun and the moon, and that was why the god Máni told her to run. But! that's if you're just a logical person. Maybe it was Hati and Sköll that was chasing her ;)

 **Rán** \- Is a sea goddess who is married to Ægir, a sea jötunn. Rán is known to drown men at sea using her fishing net, and also receives men who die at sea. The lake is obvious not the ocean, but I used her as the goddess who claimed Ulf's life in the lake. Since she's considered a dangerous goddess, it's not out of character for her to take advantage of the situation.

 **Looking between her legs** \- So the scene where Kara looks between her legs and see's the legs of her man is something I learned about a few months back. Seers and Volva used to have various ways to see into Asgard or beyond the veil. Volva would sometimes stand on high platforms and chairs in order to appear high enough to look into Asgard and see the gods. A muslim man (whose name escapes me) wrote about his experience with the vikings and described how a woman was bent over with her dress over her head and looking between the gap of her legs in order to see through the veil. Kara does this unknowingly, and by looking through the veil, she see's her father as a man, but when she looks at him normally in midgard, he appears to her as a wolf, which is his namesake. This is also a reference to the time that Ragnar points out that Kara was raised by wolves.

 **If you have anymore questions that don't spoil the story, feel free to send me an message on here or an ask on my tumblr for (almost) instant replies. Also, it's always important to do your own research. A lot of my information comes from Dr. Jackson Crawford, a professor of norse mythology at the university of colorado. He makes lecture videos about various topics about Viking culture, Norse language, and explaining the saga's in depth. I've learned quite a lot from him, so i recommend his videos for anyone who wants to learn more about it.**


	11. 10: The Town Hart

**Master of My Sea**

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 **Sorry for another late update. I dont have a good excuse. I was both lazy and lack creativity and inspiration for a long while. At any rate, this is a super long chapter, and a lot of things are brought to light in this chapter that I'm excited for you to read.**

 **I just want to give a huge thank you to the amazing reviews I've been getting. They're exceptionally encouraging and give me butterflies in my stomach. It's honestly what I go to when I feel any thread of doubt.**

 **To that guest asking about a Bjorn/Thorunn fic, since you're a guest, I couldn't reply to you. My answer is: this isn't a place for requests, I'm sorry.**

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chapter ten:  
 **THE TOWN HART**

* * *

The morning brought no hope of Kára's return. Hulda did not sleep at all that night, continuously praying to the gods as the storm raged around her, whipping water and debris in her face and eyes. Last night was a blur in her mind; after an hour or so when Kára fled and had not returned, Hulda began to search for her. To her surprise and appreciation, Helga, Floki, Ragnar and his sons had joined the search. For fear of perverse strangers taking advantage of a missing girl, the kept this news to themselves.

Bjorn had traced her to the Seer's cabin; the Seer offered no help to her location, but he did leave Hulda with some words that echoed in her mind the entire night.

 _"We need to find her before the storm gets worse. Please, you must have some idea of where she went,"_

 _"My dear," he breathed heavily as thunder shuddered the ground. "The storm will not harm her."_

 _"Did you see something? How do you know this?"_

 _"It will not harm her, because she is the storm."_

Hulda pulled herself from the high stool she had positioned in front of her house. Her bare feet slid against the slick and wet grass as she lost her balance, but she made no move to save herself from the fall. She let gravity pull her to the earth, where she curled into her body and sobbed. Standing as tall as she could on the stool and peering into the heavens did little to console her. She shouted for Freya's motherly guidance; she begged for Thor's protection; she prayed to the Allfather to send his valkyries to her. Then last, she called for her Ulf, who still floated in the darkness of the lake, just at the gates of Hel. However, the residue of the harsh storm of the night had diluted her third eye and she could not see anything other than angry clouds churning into each other.

The woman's fingers dug into the earth as she sobbed. The only sound she could hear were the birds singing for mates, and the beating of her own heart in her head that seemed to echo louder than ever. So loud that she did not register the sound of boots walking against the moist earth towards her. When she felt Ragnar's fingers moving her hair behind her ear, she jerked in surprise.

"Ease," he replied calmly, then took a hold of her biceps and helped her up from the ground. His eyes were soft, yet focused as he examined her distraught state. Dirt covered her face and hair, and grass stains tinted the paleness of her skin. "Have you not seen anything?"

"No," her voice shaked with defeat. Hulda gently pulled herself from Ragnar's hand and leaned against the stool she had used to elevate herself to Asgard. "All I saw was the rolling of clouds. They are not allowing me to see her, and I fear none of the gods are sending aid."

"We do not know that," Ragnar's hand reached up again, and ran across her shoulder. "Your daughter is strong, and the gods smile on strong women. She will come home… The forest has raised her."

"And what makes you so confident, Ragnar?" Hulda hung her head as she was hunched her shoulders and bowed her head while still leaning against the stool. "You speak of her like you know her more than I do."

"Has she told you the first time we've met?" His question earned Hulda's attention. She looked over her shoulder at him with a furrowed brow of confusion. Before she said anything, he continued, "It was at my cabin, the one you know well. I found her sitting by the firewood, a rusty knife pulled out, ready to slit my throat." His hand reached to his neck, rubbing the muscle from the memory. A small smile came forth between the whiskers of his beard, "She was upset, then, too…"

"About Ivar," Hulda nodded, remembering well.

"About Ivar," he nodded and tilted his head, "But she was also upset, because she did not know the kind of man her father was."

The woman's lungs filled with heavy air as she pulled herself from the stool and began walking towards the house, Ragnar trailing behind her.

"I wanted to tell her about Ulf for years, but," Hulda stopped at a basin of rain water and started to wash her face with an old cloth. "It was difficult. She's was too young to understand the circumstances, _or_ the past."

"Was?"

She pulled the cloth over her mouth, and then down her neck. Ragnar's eyes strayed from her eyes, down to her lips and then neck where he watched a drop of water create a shallow river down to the dip of her collarbone.

"The Seer said something last night that I had not considered," she looked down at the mud and grass stains on the rag solemnly. "The storm was not there to hinder her. It was there because it is her… It has occurred to me that has happened before."

Ragnar's snapped from the mound of her cleavage up to her eyes in alertness, "What do you mean?"

"The night that Ulf had killed himself," she squared her shoulders as her body stiffened from the memory, "was the day I learned I was pregnant."

Ragnar remembered that winter to be harsh, and even harsher that night. The next day, when Kattegat learned of his passing, for a brief moment they had all thought the storm had got him, and froze him over night. Many had died over that night; slaves, the ill, the homeless, and some children. When Hulda had announced she was pregnant, it was a light in a dismal place, especially since she had previously believed she was infertile after her first born.

"And when I gave birth to her, hard came the rain, and loud came the thunder. Last night was no different," she slowly turned to Ragnar, her face cleaner than before, but there was still the residue of dirt, and a stray blade of grass in her red hair. "She is no longer a child, she is a woman. It is time that I tell her… _everything_."

Without hesitation or further thinking, Ragnar knew of her meaning. He did not know the links between Kára and the weather, with his faith in the gods failing every passing summer, he could not wholly believe that the wee little forest girl had the power to control storms - if that is what Hulda was implying. What he did understand were the patterns in which the woman was describing and what it meant to become an adult as a girl. Kára had bled, according to Hulda, which meant that she would no longer be treated like a child.

"Everything? Even Eirik?"

"Eirik, Sigrún, Ulf, King Froh-"

"King Froh," Ragnar tilted his head and raised his brow, "That would mean, you would have to tell her your real name."

"If there is anyone that should know who I really am, It should be my daughter," she pursed her lips, "I have been so afraid of my past, that instead of haunting me, it has been haunting her."

Ragnar reached up and pulled the blades of grass from her hair, but his fingers lingered in the tendrils. Hulda's attention was pulled from his face and to the digits that threaded in her hair. The simple touch sent an influx of memories and emotions that came with it, but what was most prominent of them was guilt. Guilt from withholding knowledge from Ragnar for these many years, mostly out of the bitterness and resentment of a young woman she no longer was. But after years of holding this knowledge like a hostage, it had just gotten harder to hold. Immediately she pulled away from Ragnar's fingers and looked down, feeling the smallest she has ever felt in a long time.

Her change in demeanour was an immediate concern for the King. He could actually feel the air around her change; his face dropped to one of concern.

"What is wrong?"

"There is something else… Something you need to know. Something I should have told you years ago."

 **x x x**

It had been three days and four nights since Kára had been missing. Bjorn had a small party of hunters track her position, but all traces of her disappeared after a certain point. They had found wolf prints nearby hers, which showed that she had been sprinting and fell off a overhang in the earth. It was there that they lost her tracks. There was no signs of blood or wolf scat with human bone. In fact, the hunters had said that the wolves had lost her as well, and went off in a different direction.

Ivar felt utterly useless in the duration of the search. Dragging his body behind his brothers just felt like he was pulling them back. His mother had suggested that it would be best if he remained home, and allow Ubbe, Sigurd and Hvitserk to go. Ivar agreed, only because of the hole of helplessness he put himself in. He was no hunter, he was no tracker, hell he was not even a proper warrior. He wouldn't even know where to look first.

It was the fourth night, and he laid in his cot and looked at the ceiling in the dark. His fingers were running along his arm ring in hard contemplation. They had already searched in places where she could be - near the home, in nearby caves, at the cabin his father retires to. They have searched all of the known hunting retreats in the forest, and found no traces of her. Bjorn had been scouring the rivers nearby the direction she had been headed, and would only end up at the lake empty handed.

 _The lake…_

It was massive; to an outsider it looked like the sea from afar, but he knew it was the centre of Kattegat. The eye, as Kára had described it. If he was lost, the one place he would try to find is the lake and eventually he would find civilization, and shelter. With that revelation, Ivar pulled himself from his furs and snuck out of the longhouse and into the night, alone. He crawled through the forest for hours following the radius of the lake. Armed with two daggers to help him pull through the dirt easier, Ivar was determined to be the first person to find her. In a way, he felt as if it was his fault that she had fled. She had fled before because of him, and his words he chose that night at The Thing, was more than enough to put her on edge already. He never regretted anything more in his life.

The sun had risen, making his search for her easier. The evaluation of land told him he was moving more north, which was the direction they found her footprints to go in. The longer he pulled himself along the earth, the more Ivar began to worry that his efforts are going in vain. What if she had been abducted? What if the wolves got to her, and her body was laying somewhere, torn to shreds and and mostly eaten? What if she injured herself, and succumbed to her wounds?

He was so bound in his thoughts and anxieties that he long stopped paying attention to where he was going. Ivar's eyes burned into the soil he climbed, using the strength in his arms to pull his legs up hill, trying to ignore the sting in his eyes that felt utterly foreign to him. Was he really getting that upset over her? Kára Greenfoot, the dirty girl raised by trees and a witch? Was she really that important to him, that the idea of her being hurt in any calamity emotionally overwhelmed him, and caused his heart to beat rapidly and his head to pound in worry?

The dagger plunged into soft earth, and the weight of his body had caused the weak ground to give in. The world under him slipped from view, and suddenly he was flying - no, he was dropping. Had he been paying attention to where he was going, he would have seen the incline of the cliff that hung over the lake at 20 feet above. The edge was weak there, and it caved the moment he climbed on top of it. Ivar's arms flailed about, his daggers dropping into the lake below, and his fingers sliding against hard earth, trying to grab everything he could. His fingers grabbed the ends of a root, but it was far too thin to keep his weight. In matters of seconds that felt like eternity, his back felt the collision with the water in a slap. It punched through his chest and knocked all the air from his lungs, so when his head was enveloped in water, he gasped and choked.

Immediately panic, lack of air, and water in his throat caused the corners of his vision to cloud. Tiny stars flickered around him as his brain lacked the oxygen it needed. He felt like dead weight in a bottomless pit. The cold of the lake felt made it feel like he was in the middle of winter. With his tense muscles moving around frantically, it made the lake swallow him faster. The glassy surface of the water began to shrink away in front of him; the farther away the light seemed, and the deeper the darkness became. In what he believed to be his final thoughts, Ivar thought of the failure of dying before he even found her.

He blinked back the sting in his eyes from the water assaulting them, but he regretted immediately, because what little shimmering light he had left was now blurred. He couldn't make out anything, not even the forms that floated in front of him. What were fish and what were the arms of Rán capturing him in her net. A massive cloud of limbs and cloth obstructed his sight in a burst of bubbles and a muffled splash. Ivar blinked again, and this time he saw the colour of blood-orange wisp around the water in fluid silk ribbons. It looked like the sun had fell into the lake with him, but the closer it came to him, the more human it looked, the more familiar the face was.

A violent cough shook his body and bruised his ribs as air filled his lungs and pushed all the water out from his throat, which felt like it was lined with hot coals. His eyes still stung from the water and when he tried to look around he saw light all around him, but everything remained a blur. He saw the green of the trees, the blue of the sky, and the orange of the sun hovering over him.

"Ivar? Ivar?" He felt warm patting on his cheek.

He blinked more, trying to get rid of the veil over his eyes. Eventually, his vision began to focus, and in front of him he saw her. Hair soaking wet, face dirty and red from the sun, and her freckles looked like stars littered across the sky while the sun was still setting.

"Kára?" His voice felt small and coarse; he barely heard himself, but she had. The moment he spoke, her lips stretched into a wide grin, exposing her row of slightly crooked teeth. The sunlight reflected in her turquoise eyes, making them look like the glittering sea. He wondered if he was asleep in his cot, or maybe he had died, and she had died, and they were both sitting on the shore of Asgard.

"Are we dead?" His mind, like his muscles, felt numb. Ivar didn't entirely know where he was, and how he got here. He remembered falling off the cliff, a memory that felt like a lifetime ago, but it triggered the pain in his back from where it collided with the water surface. He remembered the water around him and the panic in his heart, but for the life of him, he could not remember being pulled onto land. Naturally, his immediate assumption was that he had died.

Kára, however, chuckled at his question which earned her a quizzical look from him. She shook her head, and moved away the hair from his brow with gentle fingers.

"No, we're not dead, stupid," she chuckled again and rubbed his cheek with her thumb. "I watched you fall off a cliff and plunge into the water."

They weren't dead. Well, that was a relief, at least, but how did they end up here? Was it Bjorn? Had he been the one to find her first, and they both happened to find Ivar being a fool and climbing to the edge of a crumbling crag along the shores of Kattegat's notorious lake?

"How did I get out of the water?" His voice was becoming stronger, Kára had noted, which was a good sign. There was still an air of daze and confusion around his head, but that was to be expected. His brain was devoid of oxygen for at least 2 minutes, and it would have been 2 minutes too long had she not gave him the kiss of life.

"I dove in after you, and pulled you out," her words might have landed on deaf ears, because he continued to look at her as if she had a foot growing out of her head.

"You went… _into_ the water?"

She nodded.

"You… went… into the water…." he repeated his words very slowly as he squinted at her. He looked around himself, where he was. He was laying on a shore of small river rocks, the gentle splashing of the lake that tried to kill him was about two feet away from his legs. "Are you sure we are not dead?"

Another laugh came from her lips, which to Ivar, sounded like heavenly bells to his ears. It was a short song and when she looked down at him, her face fell a little more seriously. Ivar was then reminded of why he was here in the first place.

Before she could ask what he was doing here, he spoke, finding confidence in his words after nearly dying. "I came to look for you. I wanted to save you, but-" he looked down, slightly ashamed, even less amused at the irony of the situation. He did not want to admit the truth, even if it was staring both of them in the face. She, clearly, saved him, and conquered her fear to do it as well.

"Consider my debt to you paid then," her smile was small, but warm and inviting. Her fingers were still on his face, as if she was worried he would slip away back into the dark. She had lost her father to that lake, and she wouldn't allow it to take her only friend. Days ago, Kára would not admit to it, but Ivar had grown on her more than anyone ever had. He was like Jörmundgandr, coiling around her until he could finally bind her to him by biting his tail. He stirred her oceans like no one had ever done; how often he got under her skin, creating storms in her head and her chest and her stomach.

The cruel words that he spat at her were long forgotten, for now, she was simply happy that he was here and he was alive. Ivar had forgotten her aloofness and bitterness as well, but felt an uncomfortable, but not terrible, feeling in his stomach. It was a light, anxious feeling that started in his stomach and blossomed below his belly button. He didn't know how, but she looked, or seemed different. There was something different about her as she hovered over him, and yet everything looked exactly the same. Her hair was still that obnoxious orange-red colour, tangled and dirty as it was from being alone in the forest for three days. Her face might have been more freckled due to the sun, and overall, Kára appeared more of a mess than he had ever seen her. Those lips, however, seemed slightly different- they seemed more pink and more full, like soft rose petals. Or maybe they always looked like that, and he never noticed until now.

For reasons unknown to him, his body reacted before his mind could. It was like his head became unplugged to his spine, and his heart took control of his arms. With numb fingers, he reached out and cupped the back of her head and pulled himself halfway up from the ground to meet her lips with his in a chast, semi-wet kiss. Upon realizing his boldness and what he had done, he pulled away and let his head fall back into the pebbled ground.

Heat rushed to Kára's cheeks faster than the kiss had lasted. She pulled away with a small gasp, sitting up straight with her fingers on her lips. Looking down at Ivar, he had his forearm draped over his eyes, blocking his eyes from witnessing the possible look of horror on her face. Unbeknownst to him, Kára held no negative expression, but instead her face eased itself to an impish smirk.

"I do not know why I-" Ivar began to speak, but was interrupted when he felt a hand wrap around his forearm and pull it away from his face. Her own was close to him, and he was surprised at the smile she had on.

"I knew you fancied me, Beinlausi," Kára leaned in and planted her lips on his.

Ivar froze underneath her, completely surprised by the entire situation. Flashes back to the day she had first given him a kiss under the tree came to mind, but that first time, it had not felt this way. His face was red hot, and he could feel his heart in his mouth. Ivar's fingers twitched in an attempt to move from his paralyzing disbelief. His skin rippled like the surface of water when rain pelted it aggressively.

When Kára pulled away, Ivar was wide-eyed as ever, his arms branches out, as if bracing the earth around him for dear life. His face was pulled inward, trying to recede into the pebbles. Those blue orbs were staring into the sky unblinkingly.

"Ivar?" She snapped her fingers in front of his face. She waved her hand in front of him a few more times, seeing, just barely, his eyelids fluttered from the brush of wind. "Did you die?"

The boy felt himself deflate as air escaped his lips that almost sounded like words. "I think we should go home," his voice was higher than normal.

 **x x x**

Ragnar was kicked awake by the angry foot of his wife, Aslaug. He had fallen asleep in his throne late last night and didn't have the strength, nor the mind, to pick up his body to put it in a proper bed. When his knee was hit sharply by Aslaug, his head bobbled awake, and his eyes fluttered open lazily and half alert.

"What is it you want, woman?" He pinched his eyes and yawned.

"Ivar is not in his bed!"

A silent and exhausted sigh filtered through his nostrils. Ragnar tilted his head back, resting it on the throne and shut his eyes again. "He is probably with his brothers, looking for the girl."

"Hvitserk and Ubbe are at the port, and Sigurd is playing his lute outside," her voiced seethed, "They all have said they have not seen him."

Ragnar opened his eyes again, but he didn't seem alert. He remained tired, thanks to a long night of drinking, over thinking, and remembering. However, when the light of the sconces hit Aslaug's face, he could see the lines in her skin, the wild look in her eyes, and the disheveled state of her hair. She did not look this worried at all when Kára went missing. Despite Ivar's sudden disappearance, he was neither concerned nor surprised. He had no empathy towards Aslaug's distressed state, especially after all that happened.

"If this is how you are after a few hours of not knowing where he is, then I fear the day when he leaves you entirely," his voice was low, but for Aslaug it was as loud as a warhorn.

"DO NOT MOCK MY PAIN, RAGNAR!"

The sheer volume of her shrill voice justled his very bones, causing him to become fully awake. Her shout had caused small yelps and whispers by the slaves that were in the long house. It took him completely off guard, and made his head pound at the temples. He barely had time to react to Aslaug as she crumpled to the floor of the dias and began sobbing into her long sleeves. Her words were muffled, for the most part, but Ragnar heard the words easily.

 _"You've never cared about him, you've never loved him, you would have rather him die in the woods, like you had tried to do to him before…"_

A hefty breath of air filled his lungs at those words, and the feeling of his skin tightening around his bones. He wanted nothing more than to defend himself and say otherwise, but he was never good with weeping women. He didn't even know how to handle Hulda and even less when she bestowed on him knowledge that he wished she didn't tell him. It only served to weaken his heart and pain his mind more than it already was.

Instead of losing his temper, he slowly raised from his throne and gently brushed his fingers through the top of Aslaug's head.

"I will look for him," Ragnar's voice was small in comparison to the volume of her's prior. Her outburst still lingered in the air, and rested on the ears of those who heard. With swift but silent steps, he left the longhouse, leaving the queen crying on the dias.

Tracking Ivar was harder than tracking a normal person. He obviously left no footprints and the tracks he would have left in the dirt floor would have been trampled over and mixed in with carts and bags that have been dragged around. Eventually, Ragnar went to the edge of the city and examined the terrain until he saw the grass flattened in one area, almost like a very faint game trail in the grass. He followed it with silent steps, and the more he did, the more confident he was that it was the trail of Ivar. He saw little holes in the ground every foot or two along the way, which meant he was using something to help him move faster.

The trail lead Ragnar to the lake, and then it curved as it followed the perimeter. He furrowed his brow at this, wondering what his son was doing; it looked like he had a destination, rather than wandering aimlessly. The trail from Kattegat to the lake was almost near straight, which meant he intended on going to lake, and following it's shores. Ragnar mimicked this, and kept on walking for another hour or two until he found himself bounding uphill that lead to a cliff and that is when he halted.

Ivar's trail had disappeared where soil and grass hung off of thin roots at the very tip of the earth. Panic shook his core and froze his skin when he realized what had happened. "No," he whispered and rushed himself to the precipice and flattened himself to look over the edge, and merely saw dark blue water beneath him.

" _No_!" He screamed louder, his eyes wide and rapidly moving around the surface, hoping or not hoping to find a shadow or body floating around. He immediately rolled off the edge and pulled himself on his feet, quickly scurrying down the slope to reach the shore, hoping that Ivar had pulled himself to dry land, or at the very least he was holding onto the rock face somewhere he could not see.

Flashes back to when Ivar was a baby pulled to the forefront of his mind. Oh, how he cried mercilessly, loudly, and never ending. The boy's legs were painfully bent and deformed at birth, and Ragnar knew that he would never walk, and he would always be in pain. He remembered telling himself that leaving the boy in the forest to succumb to the wills of the gods and the wild was a far better fate than living a lifetime in physical, mental, and emotional pain. He had not been attached to him when he was born, that was clear, but now with the trepidation of Ivar's possible death causing a storm in his chest, Ragnar regretted every bit of it.

Of course he loved him; he loved him like he loved all his sons and losing him was never a thought he would ever had. Maybe on some level, he did not believe it was possible. Bjorn was untouchable; his name Ironside was a testimony to not only his prowess but his favour to the gods. Ubbe and Hvitserk were strong young men, more skilled with a blade and axe than many their age, and there was no doubt they were ready to come to Paris. However, Ivar had always been different. He had always been glued to Aslaug's hip from the very moment he was born; he was never far from her reach. She always knew where he was, how to get to him, and who he was with. It never occurred to him, as much as he claimed it would happen, that Ivar would stray so far from his mother to the point of injuring - or Thor forbid, killing - himself.

The reality of the situation hit Ragnar like a boulder to the back, so much so that he slid down the grass while he tried to descend, and once his knees met with the pebbled ground, he crawled to the water, and began shouting Ivar's name. He hurried through the water until it reached his thighs, ignoring the cold sting of the lake.

"Father?"

Ragnar spun around his head, looking around in the water, thinking the voice came from there. When he turned around, he had to do a double take. Standing on the river rocks, away from the water, clothes soaked, hair damp, was Kára with Ivar laid beside her at her feet, looking soaked and a little pale in the face, but otherwise unharmed.

Ragnar felt his knee almost give in at the sight; he stumbled as he turned his body around and trudged back onto the shore without words being said. His eyes, unblinking, and watery from his bubbling emotions, was enough to show Ivar a look he's never seen on his father before. To make it stranger, his father crawled to him and took him in his arms, then cradled his head to his shoulder.

The king kissed the back of Ivar's head, but said no words. Ivar was just as speechless, and Kára stood awkwardly watching the paternal display in front of her. She, herself, had never witnessed such weakness from any man, and never thought it would show in the form of Ragnar Lothbrok.

The viking wrapped his arm around Ivar and began to stand up, holding his son as if he was just a babe. With his free hand, he rested it on Kára's head, stroking down the damp threads of her orange hair before resting it on her shoulder. She didn't need to tell him what happened, he read the story by the state of their persons, the paleness of Ivar's cheek, and the swollenness of Kára's lips.

"Thank you," his smile was thin but soft and honest. "Let's get you home."

 **x x x**

When Hulda saw Ragnar walking up the hill towards the moss house, her eyes were tired, red, and void of life. Ivar was in his arms, which only provoked some curiosity in them, especially at how the boy's clothes were damp in some corners, as were the tips of his hair. There was no time to make up conclusions to what happened, because trailing behind Ragnar only a few feet away was a sight for sore eyes. It was almost like seeing the ghost of someone who she thought she would never see again.

The reunion of mother and daughter was full of sobbing and long embraces. Ragnar put down Ivar gently on a chopping block stump, and they remained where they were as Hulda embraced her daughter and sobbed in her shoulder. Ivar could not see Kára's face, only her back, but her shoulders shook and he could hear her. It reminded him painfully of the day at the beach, where she clung to him and cried harder than he had ever seen someone cry. Right now it was different. The emotion greatly contrasted it in a way that he didn't entirely understand. Fear was what brought Kára to tears and hysterics the first time, but right now it was relief, remorse, and love. How could two very different scenarios initiate the same reaction to the exact same degree?

These displays were not common around Ivar, he suddenly realized. Being glued and roped to his mother all his life, he was used to dry, apathetic natures. The only love he was shown was the obsessive nature of Aslaug as she fretted over him above all else, and he knew that was the only place he would get that attention. Today, he was shown differently. Today, he was given a softer, foreign affection not from one, but two other people. First from Kára, who warmed his stomach and set his skin on fire by just breathing next to him. Then, his father, who rarely showed forms of weakness linked with paternal love for him. He tried, as he might, to treat him like his older brothers, but it felt forced to Ivar. The rawness of what happened at the lake was new to him, and truly, his young mind still did not understand it. He could not even decide if it was something he liked, or was scared of.

When Hulda pulled away, it was to move her fingers to Kára's face and began brushing back hair and dirt away from her eyes, as if to ensure herself that this was real and this was her daughter returned.

"Oh, my sweet child," Hulda smiled painfully through blurred eyes and stained cheeks. "There are no words to describe my relief and happiness that you're here in one piece. I could not bare the thought of you out there, alone."

Kára rubbed her wrists along the mound of her cheeks to wipe away the obstruction of tears, "But I wasn't alone."

Hulda stared back at her in confusion; her brow knitted as she looked back at Ragnar and Ivar who still stood where she last saw them. They both heard, and were equally as confused and curious to this proclamation.

She returned her gaze back to Kára, "What do you mean, child?"

A rounded smile came to her face, and the girl-now-woman pulled her hands to her mother's own face and cupped her palms around her jaw. "Father was with me."

Hulda stared into her eyes, sparkling not only from the tears, but the shine of the sun that peeked through the leaves. The Vövla searched the meaning of her words in those orbs, and found there was literal truth in them. And she knew, in that moment, that her prayers were not, in fact, ignored after all these days. A new wave of tears came through her eyes and Hulda pulled Kára to her bosom and buried her face in the dirty, damp and matted hair of hers.

 _It's time,_ Hulda thought as she looked up to the sky, which opened up to her finally after all this time. The gods no longer had their backs to her, and she knew why. Kára needed to do this alone, and Hulda needed to feel what it would feel like to not have her, and not knowing where she was. For one day, it would happen again, but there would be no reunion.

Many hours later, Hulda was left alone with her daughter in a familiar setting, but a more surprising sight. Kára was in the water with no help; she did not clung to the rocks for dear life, nor did she stay at the shallows. Hulda watched from the bank of the river as her daughter washed the filth and blood from her body, and when she came from the water, she no longer looked like her daughter anymore. It brought another wave of sadness to Hulda, because she knew better than anyone in Midgard.

Fresh clothes were put on immediately, and Kára sat cross legged before her mother as the woman combed out her hair, and trimmed off the debris tangled in it. Hulda listened intently as Kára retold the story of her survival in the woods alone, from the moment she left the Seer's hut to when Ivar had fallen off the cliff. The idea of wolves chasing her daughter through the storm made Hulda's whole body freeze with dread, despite Kára being alive and unharmed before her. Then, Kára got to the morning after, and what she saw at the lake.

"I came to an old fishing shack, hadn't been used for years," Kára explained. "I managed to get some materials to fish, and when I went into the water, I heard footsteps. I thought I saw a man when I snuck a peak between my legs-"

Hulda froze with her hands, and found herself tense with anticipation that only showed when her eyes watched the top of her daughter's head.

"But, when I looked over, it wasn't a man. It was a wolf...He had father's eyes…"

When Kára trailed off, Hulda let the words sink into her mind and heart before replying with a small voice, "How do you know they were your father's eyes?"

"I've dreamed of them before," Kára pulled her knees to her chest. "Like a memory that should have been, or wasn't mine. In the dream, I'm sitting in a tree and I look down and see him lying in the grass, staring at me with a smile in his face. He then reaches out with something in his hand, and I reach to grab it, but I wake up as soon as my hand touches him."

Hulda swallowed the lump in her throat, then resumed combing her hair. "What happened after you saw the wolf?"

"He nuzzled and licked my face, and then walked into the water," Kára bit her lip, squinting as she tired to recall all that happened. "I waited, and when he returned he had a trout in his jaws. He was with me until last night. I woke up, and found he was nowhere to be seen, but I saw his prints in the mud, and they lead back to the lake."

"The gods had allowed him passage through the gate of Hel to be with you," Hulda found herself smiling through dew-rimmed eyes.

"But why not as a man?" Kára asked.

"Because," Hulda ran her fingers through the damp orange strands. "You are the daughter of the wolf, and the lessons you learned could have not been taught to you by man. And," she sighed to herself, "the forest has given you more than I have ever given you." A gentle touch of her hand on Kára's shoulder brought the young woman's attention to her mother.

"There is much I need to tell you, and someone that you should meet."

 **x x x**

Dusk blanketed the hills in a dull purple and orange glow as mother and daughter climbed over the mounds until they reached the burials. Grass had grown over the boat-shaped mounds, but the white stones that bordered them were still vibrant against the green grass. Hulda had walked over to one that was nearly covered in purple forget-me-not flowers, and sank down to her knees.

Kára stood beside her, looking at the mound. The short journey to the burial ground was made in silence, only the wind and the birds filled the void. Even with no explanation, Kára knew whose grave she stood at. After a few moments, she descended to the grass and folded her legs under her.

"Eirik was your brother, but he wasn't your father's son," Hulda began with a sigh that got lost in the winds. "But he treated him like he was, and he never looked at him any other way."

Kára watched her mother's profile as her eyes were glued to the blue and purple flowers that swayed against the midsummer air. "Who was his father?"

Hulda turned to Kára with a small, sad smile, and reached out a hand to place it on the girl's cheek, "That is a long story. One you are finally ready to hear, my love."

"My name is not Hulda, as everyone knows me as. I was known as Thora Borgarhjört, and your aunt was called Sigrún Spjótkona, and our father, your grandfather, was Heroth, the famed earl of Götaland. As his only children, there were no shortage of proposals and courtships, but my father would not allow us to accept any of them. He looked for a grander marriage for us.

"I was fifteen when I was married to King Froh, the king of Svealand, and I was sixteen when he invaded and killed the norwegian king Siward. It was not a forced marriage by any means. I was an ambitious girl, and as spoiled as an month old apple. An older man, a king, wanted my hand and he promised me the world. I fell into his trap most easily, as he was as cunning and charming as the snakes he carried around with him.

"It was at this time that I had begun distancing myself from people I loved. Aslaug and I were constantly challenging each other, and she had got immensely jealous that I had married a king before she could find a courtier for herself. My sister, however, did not like the person who I was becoming. We would argue so loud, the wolves would howl with us. It was when she came to me with a man at her arm that she had intended to marry that I had snubbed her completely. At the time, I had hoped for her to marry as high as me; to become a queen, to become rich, like me, but instead she had settled for a smith's apprentice: Y _our father._

"Ulf was destined to marry Sigrún, but war had prolonged their union. When all I had was Froh, I became hollow. He had succeeded in ensuring that I was wholly dependent on him, especially since I was not a favourite to the people, his or those we conquered. When the rebellion began to rise, there were many chanting for my beheading, and during that time I had no support from family. I begun to hate myself, I begun to loath Froh and the crown he had given me. Sigrún had tried free me, but Froh confined me to a tower. He constricted me like a lindworm would to his property. I became a victim in his game of power.

"I had been in my tower when my sister was killed in the battlefield. I had not known this until the very person who rescued me happened to be the man who had ended her life: Ragnar Sigurdson. He had gotten his nickname Lothbrok on that very day. With his thick attire, he had managed to beat Froh and his poisonous snakes without fatal injury. When he burst into my tower, I had thought he was going to kill me, like how many had wanted. Instead, he grabbed me by the arm and told me to hurry.

"Ragnar saved me from the Siward loyalists that he fought with; they wanted me buried along with my husband. He had cut my hair and gave me new garb and a new name. For a fortnight he kept me hidden in an abandoned house near kattegat - the one he frequents to this day - and when people asked about me, he would say that I was his slave. I mourned heavily during it all; I mourned the failure I had become, I mourned the losses of everyone I cared about, but I mostly mourned over my sister, who was my first love.

"Ragnar comforted me in the only way men knew how to comfort women. In those moments, I had grown too fond of him, and I had thought there was a future with him. Though his heart was already taken by Lagertha by that time, which in my grievous state sent me spiralling into the shadows. It had gotten worse when my stomach grew with child - Eirik.

"I could not let Ragnar know, so I fled the house and found myself lost in the forest. I was young, and pregnant, and terrified. To this day, I do not know how I was able to survive unscathed for so long. Eventually, I had come to the lake, near a fishing cabin where I saw a man sobbing into his palms. I stood, watching him silence, afraid to ruin his moment of solace. But then I saw his eyes under the glare of the sun, glowing by the tears of his eyes and I immediately saw his soul, and how it suffered much like mine.

"In the blindness of my ambition, I had not seen how much he loved Sigrún until I saw him cry for her. When he saw me standing there, disheveled, pregnant, and crying, he said nothing, but his lips spoke a thousand words for every tear he kissed away. Our hearts clung to the closest thing to Sigrún, which was each other. Ulf vowed to protect me and the child from those who wished any remains of Froh to be smothered and buried.

"Our lives intertwined since then, and as the seasons passed, the name Thora Borgarhjört was long forgotten. I had buried my past with my sister, so I could have a second chance as Hulda. I had hoped that my past would stay buried; but one thing after another would bubble up to the surface. When Aslaug came to Kattegat, pregnant with Ragnar's child, the life I had built with Ulf began to crumble one stone at a time.

"I thought I was able to contain the avalanche of it all, by shielding you from the past so you could have an untainted future, but I was a fool to believe that I could control it. You deserve to know who your mother is, and where you come from."

The word avalanche was appropriate, Kára thought, because that's what it felt like in that moment. With no room to react, she was being pelted by truths from the past. She had remained quiet as she digested and looked at the mound in the earth, suddenly feeling how real it was. There was something, however, that she didn't quite understand, and the more she thought about it, the more her heart began to race.

"Did you get pregnant before or after you were saved from King Froh?"

* * *

 **I've been waiting a long time to tell the story behind Hulda, because I had to deal with a lot of working with the canon and actual sagas, and to make it work well with the story.**

 **So first thing's first:**

 **Borgarhjört - Town Hart. Thora the Town Hart**

 **Spjótkona - Javelin Woman. Or my attempt at translating spear wife. Sigrún Spearwife.**

 **If you guys are just show watchers, you probably don't know about Ragnar's forgotten wife, Thora Borgarhjört. So, I can write a whole thing about this, and how History's Vikings changed a lot of things about the sagas of Ragnar, but that would be a lot of information. But if there is a lot of demand for it, I'll be happy to post it all. For now I'll keep it as brief and informative as possible.**

 **Thora is the woman whom Ragnar marries after he divorces Lagertha. She is the reason why he is named "Lothbrok" which translates to Shaggy pants/trousers, or hairy breeches. Quick run down of the story; Thora was trapped by a Lindworm (Serpent/dragon, depending on which version youre reading) in a tower. Her father, who I mention by actual name in the chapter, promises her hand in marriage to anyone who saves her. But the Lindworm's fangs are poisonous and kills everyone who tries. Ragnar makes his shaggy pants to to protect himself from the Lindworm's bite, and thus kills it and saves Thora. They had two sons Eiríkr and Agnar. Ragnar had way more sons than the show gave him.**

 **Anyway, in History's Vikings, they gave him an entirely different background that isn't really addressed in the show itself. The story is as Hulda explained. There was King Froh, who had trained poisonous snakes (which was supposed to be the lindworm from the saga), who overthrew the Norwegian King. Ragnar defeated him by fashioning his armour with hairy animal hide. He was fifteen at the time, and this took place a bit before he confessed his love to Lagertha (and that whole story with the bear etc). So, I obviously took some liberties to insert actual saga to this show-made background for Ragnar, while not damaging the canon of the show. Thora was still trapped, Ragnar saved her, but instead of marrying her like the saga, he simply kept her as a secret lover for her protection. Then married Lagertha. You can find this background on him on his Vikings wikia page, but it was also included in the dvd extras I believe.**

 **Sigrún has nothing to do with the saga of Thora and Ragnar; her addition is purely fictitious.**

 **Any confusions about this part, just send me a pm asking me to clarify anything youre confused about or send me an ask on my tumblr, cncevpon.**


	12. 11: The Harbinger

**Master of My Sea**

* * *

Hello everyone! It's been a long time, I know, im sorry. It hasn't been the most pleasant summer, and writing has been exceptionally difficult. I'm sure a lot of you can relate. But, I really like this story, and Vikings is my favourite show next to Game of Thrones. I also need to see this through just to prove to myself I can actually finish something i started.

Anyway, a couple of notes:

I am exceptionally flattered and grateful for all these reviews since the last chapter! I enjoy them all, and every one of them is great encouragement.

 ******* HOWEVER, while I recognize excitement about my story and that's awesome, I do feel it is necessary to discourage spamming reviews and putting in spoilers of the story in the reviews, especially reviewing on earlier chapters and talking about spoilers that happen in the latest chapter. *******

If you wish to discuss with me about the story, we can do that via private messaging or contacting me on my tumblr oceanwitch or cncevpon. If you review this story without an account registered, I have no way of contacting you and addressing you personally about your review and questions, and I rather not clutter each chapter with questions and answers.

Alright, now that we got that out of the way, onto the long awaited chapter 11.

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chapter eleven:  
 **THE HARBINGER**

* * *

The day after Kára's return, Ragnar had climbed up the hill to the highest point, where the fields were littered with ship-shaped burials lined with white stones. There were many great warriors, shieldmaidens, earls, and warlords buried in this field, and yet they all looked the same. Some were smaller than others, and those were children or younger folk. But, out of all the graves, there was one that was absolutely covered in purple forget-me-not flowers, so much so that the white stones were all but little white dots in the collage of colours.

Ragnar had little memory of sleeping at all that night, nor did he remember moving from his bed and walking through the slumbering city and silently through the trees. He felt numb at the events of the past few days, but also hollow as he had only just began to digest the truth he was given a few days ago. The orange glow of dawn was just peeking over the ocean's horizon, painting the black ripples orange and kissing the graves with the first light of the day. Ragnar sat with his knees up, and his elbows draped on them. In his fingers, he fiddled with the stem of a flower he had pulled from the ground.

"I cannot say that I did not have my suspicions; you looked more like me than any son I've had after you," the flower spun in his fingers. "Perhaps I was too afraid to lose Lagertha in the early years of our marriage to admit to myself that I had fathered a child with another woman, but that is no excuse." After some thought, he let out an laugh through his nose, "I remember the first day I met you. You were two years old, eyes like sapphires, wide and bright light the summer sea. You kept running into the bay, and your mother kept on chasing after you, but you were so adamant to see what was out there. You kept on saying that the sea was singing to you."

A frown replaced his smile at the memory, "I was promised by the gods to have many sons, and I had another staring in my face without my knowledge. And now, I see that I take for granted the ones that are alive. The ones you had died to protect." He brushed the back of his knuckles across his bottom lid to brush away the stray tear that betrayed his breaking heart. "My only regret is that I wasn't there to be a father for you. But I am grateful for Ulf, more than any man could be, for raising you as if you were his own… Even after what I took from him. I did not deserve him for friend, and Freya decided I did not deserve you."

His knees collapsed to the grass as his legs spread out before him. Ragnar's hand reached out to the mound of earth that protected Eirik's body. His eyes glazed over and reddened as the emotions took control of his body, which began to rock and shake from the sobs he couldn't control. The digits of his fingers dug into the grass and soil in an attempt to reach him, but instead he folded his body into himself at the weight of his broken heart.

"I… I am a _terrible_ father. And you were too good for me..."

 **x x x**

The deep voice of a man bellowed in Kattegat's bay as he sung towards the departing ships. The drums and his voice could be heard as far as the bluffs, where Ivar, Sigurd, Kára, Hulda, and Aslaug stood as they watched Ragnar and the warband sail back to Paris. As the wind picked up in the sails the further out into the ocean they went, the shift of change was undeniable among the four, but they remained silent.

Sigurd watched in mild envy as his brothers went off with their father to an epic raid, but that feeling had overshadowed by a cloud of dread. He smelled something familiar and unpleasant in that wind, but he couldn't quite place the memory it originated. Ivar had the same feeling to a certain degree; he wasn't put at unease at the scent on the wind, almost as if he associated it with relief. Still, there was something stale or rotten about it that put a vile taste in his mouth. For some reason, he cut off his gaze from the ships and moved it to Kára.

Her face was unmoving like stone and her eyes seemed to be looking at the ships, but they were adrift into nothingness. Clearly lost in thought and ignorant to Ivar's staring, he took advantage of her not noticing and openly stared at her. He had noticed changes in Kára since he found her at the riverbank, but when he tried to point them out to himself, he couldn't place how she changed. Perhaps she was cleaner than she was before, and that was why her hair seemed to glow more, and her freckles appeared to him like a galaxy of red stars in an ivory sky. He never liked her freckles before; it made her face look textured and clustered, but now… They were alluring.

Unbeknownst to Ivar, Aslaug was looking at him. The children sat on the grass before her and Hulda, who stood only a couple of feet behind her. The queen's eyes were sharp as she watched her son watch Kára in the exact way Ragnar claimed he had. Her mind was no longer on her departing husband and sons, but the blossoming nightshade flower before her. Her fingers curled into her palms and her nails cut crescent shapes into them. She hated Kára for who her mother was, and what she represented. It was, of course, not rational to hate a child by any means, but Aslaug was nowhere near rational in this stage of her life. The Queen felt her regality and power fading as age gripped her throat and salt poison her veins. Aslaug had become so salty that when the girl had gone missing, she had only given a dry apology to Hulda, but her stomach fluttered in amusement and she silently relished at her petty victory. The thought sprung to her at the idea of Kára being found dead or never returning for one reason or another, and Aslaug felt indifferent. There was moment of shame as well, especially when she woke up to find Ivar had disappeared, and she prayed to the gods to forgive her selfish wishes and hopes.

Then Kára returned as did Ivar, and Ragnar started a feast. She watched her husband dance with the little girl to a flute and drum. Hulda played Tafl with Ivar; Ubbe and Hvitserk were listening to stories told by King Harald Finehair and his brother, Halfdan; Bjorn had Sigurd on his shoulders as her son strung his first lute and sung loudly. Everyone was happy, everyone was merry - except for Aslaug. With a goblet of wine in her hand, she sat in her throne and hid her frown behind the rim. Her anger and hatred bubbled under everyone's noses, but she had done her best to appear content in everyone's merriment. Until, that was, when she saw Ragnar share a look with Hulda from across the hall.

It was that same look Ivar had as he gazed at the red-headed girl next to him.

Hulda had also been looking at both Ivar and her daughter, but her eyes trailed to Aslaug. The red woman too felt the shift in the air, but she had felt it much sooner. Like an animal prior to a storm, she knew something was coming, and it was now that the winds of change had beat through the city like a cloud of arrows. Bonds were going to be severed, relationships will be strained, and people were going to die.

 **x x x**

Ivar laid like a dead fish, staring at the sky that was obstructed by tangled branches and green leafs. One of his hands fisted the rune that hung around his neck, while the other one dug into his cuticles with his thumb. He tried his best not to wince in pain, but his teeth digging into his bottom lip was a dead gave him away.

Hulda had promised him weeks ago that she would give him something that was taken away from him. At the time, he was confused, but after some dilberating, he realized what she meant: his legs. After they had left the great all, Hulda put a hand on her shoulder and told him to come to her hut by noon, and not to tell his mother. Without questions, Ivar had done what he was told, which lead him to this position.

He was bare bottomed, with only a loincloth protecting his privacy, laying on a wooden table as the soft pedal like finger tips of the witch massaged his thin and frail legs. Ivar was grateful that Hulda had sent Kára off to hunt and fish for the day, for the boy never felt more embarrassed and vulnerable in his life. The only person alive that had seen him this nude, especially his legs, was his mother. But under the natural light of the sun, Ivar was exposed to the world, and the idea that someone might stroll into the clearing made his heart pump rapidly. It didn't help that a stranger's fingers were sliding along his most sensitive limbs.

Ivar winced when she had felt along his calves, his most weakest bones next to his ankles.  
Over the years Ivar had become immune to the pain his legs had caused, to a certain extent. When the weather got chilly, his bones quaked and ached. Recently, though, as his body began to grow, the pain had been almost unbearable some nights. His calves had always been particularly painful.

"You had broken your leg here," He heard Hulda said, her finger running along the deformation under the stretched and thin skin. "Do you remember when this happened?"

With his eyes tightly shut, he shook his head, "No. It has always been painful."

"That is because it was not properly set, so it did not heal properly," the woman let out a sigh, and went to examine the left leg. His skin was littered with purple and green bruises from dragging his body around; his sensitive skin keen to bruising as easy as placing a finger onto the skin for more than a minute. It was a wonder he had not died from pain alone. "For it to grow evenly, we would have to break it again to reset it."

At that, Ivar sat up on his elbows to look at Hulda with a wildly incredulous look, "Are you insane?"

Hulda looked at him with a raised eyebrow, but otherwise neutral expression, "If we do not reset this bone, Ivar, you will never walk like a normal man."

"Do not get my hopes up, woman!" He sighed and laid back down on the table. "My legs were broken since birth. The gods had already decided I would never walk."

"You were born with bent knees, not broken bones," Hulda's words made Ivar squint and roll his head to her. She was sitting on a stool with her legs crossed looking at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I helped give birth to you, so I know what you looked like when you took your first scream into this world. Your legs were bent at the knees, and the shape of your bones would not straighten as a normal babe's would. As a midwife, I've seen many babes being born with deformities, but your birth was the first, and not the last."

His brow furrowed as he looked at her, "There are others like me?"

"There are no others like you, Ivar," she smiled before continuing. "You were in a lot of pain because your legs were restless, and you could not bend them comfortably. We all believed your legs were broken, and you would never walk. By the time I learned otherwise, it was too late; you were two or three years old, and your legs had grown so weak already, that to try to fix anything would only cause you more pain, because you were so young, it might kill you. If you hadn't spent your entire life in a cot and barrow all your life, you might have developed muscle and fat in your legs that would have saved you from breaking a bone. But now- now is the perfect time to fix what has been broken for a long time."

"Why now?"

"You are growing into a man, and your bones are growing faster than before. If we fix this now, they will grow in the right direction."

Ivar let out a defeated sigh, not wanting to re break his most sensitive calf bone. He thought back to Harbard, who he had vague memories of visually. All that he remembered of the man was what his mother told him, and that was how he cured his pain with a touch and a prayer.

The boy looked back at Hulda, "Isn't there some kind of magic that could heal my legs or kill my pain? A man named Harbard-"

"I know who Harbard is, and I know what he had done," Hulda's face visibly turned sour. Ivar quirked an eyebrow and opened his mouth to ask her what her problem with the wanderer was, but she continued for him. "Harbard is no god, like many of them say. He is a deceiver, a trickster, who takes advantage of times when men leave to raid and leave their women behind."

Ivar furrowed his eyebrow at this, "But he healed my pain."

Hulda's face began soften, but there was a vindictiveness in her eyes as they settled on his. "Ivar, do you know who your niece, Siggy, was named after?"

He blinked at the random question, but shook his head no.

"Siggy was an amazing woman and friend, not only to me, but to Helga, Lagertha, and your mother. She was also the wife of Earl Haraldson, the former earl of Kattegat that your father defeated, and then later became the lover of your uncle, Rollo. She took care of you, your brothers, and was there when you were born.

"Before Harbard had came to Kattegat, your mother, Helga, Siggy and I all had visions of him shortly after Ragnar and his warband left to England. While Helga and your mother had taken a liking to Harbard, Siggy and I were not easily fooled by him. The two of us warned Aslaug not to trust him, but she was so smitten she did not heed those warnings until it was too late.

"I had warned Aslaug that all magic has a price to be paid, but she refused to believe me, and instead chose Harbard, and allowed him to use his magic to heal your pain. One night, during of the coldest days of that winter, your brother Ubbe and Hvitserk had fled the great hall suddenly, and traveled through the woods hand in hand. Siggy had run after them with nothing to shield her from the cold, not even shoes. She followed the trail until she found them standing on the thin ice of the lake. The ice collapsed underneath them, and Siggy plunged into the water.

"Your niece was named after the woman who had saved your brothers' lives, but in doing so her life had replaced theirs. Harbard drowned her in the lake, because life was the debt that needed to be paid for the magic he had done. If it was not going to be your brothers, it would have been someone else."

Ivar had listened silently, showing no sign of his reaction to this side of the story. It was a complete contrast to what his mother had told him about Harbard. She never once mentioned Siggy, let alone that someone had to die in order for him to be relieved of his pain. As young as he was, Ivar was intelligent and clever, and understood now more than ever what ignited the uneasy relationship between his mother and Hulda the Red.

Aslaug had chosen Harbard, a deciever, over Hulda, a life-long friend.

One thing Ivar could not digest was the idea that his two older brothers nearly died for him without their consent or knowledge. Moreso, Ivar didn't know how to wrap his head around the idea that someone he didn't know, or had no memory of, had died for him. Perhaps not willfully, or perhaps she had allowed Harbard to drown her in the lake. Another life, Ivar realized, was given to the gods for the sake of saving the Ragnarssons. Eirik, Hulda's first child, was said to have fought in the siege orchestrated by Jarl Borg and had died protecting the queen and her sons.

Ivar had no idea how many more lives were given to the pursuit of keeping him and his brothers alive, but it seemed that Hulda had lost two people to the cause. A son, and a friend, and Aslaug repaid their sacrifices by forgetting them.

He didn't realize it, but his eyes had trailed to the floor for the longest time, completely lost in his thoughts. Ivar still couldn't decide if he could swallow this truth. He was cross that he was lied to more than anything; his mother allowed him to put Harbard on a pedestal as if he was Odin himself. The older he got, he suspected there was more man to the myth of the wanderer, but he didn't even consider that Harbard was a deceiver. There was some part of him that didn't want to believe in Hulda, but he was a smart kid. His mother had more of a reason to lie than the Völva did.

"I do not wish for anyone else to die for me," Ivar set his jaw and turned his head to look at the red woman. "How much is this going to hurt?"

"I will give you some poppy milk to help, but it will still feel like hot rods sticking up your leg."

Ivar swallowed the bile in his throat and looked back at the trees. He had lived his life endearing the pain that still originated from his legs, and yet he was still afraid of it. But- if he wanted to be viking, if he wanted to be like his father, and greater than his brothers, then pain is something he would not escape from. Pain reminded him he was alive.

He felt her gentle touch again, but this time on his cheek as she turned him to face her, "All worthy things in this world are not obtained easily, Ivar. However, it will always be your choice to choose between the easy path, or the one less traveled by."

Ivar took another beat to mull over her words before making a decision. The negatives of this choice of course were flooding to the forefront of his mind, but then suddenly he remembered that day he crawled up the hill, and sat under that tree. Kára was in that tree, and he acutely remembered the envy he had that she was able to climb up there and even hang upside down by her knees with ease.

"Do it," he squared his shoulders against the table and looked up at the branches that hung over him. One day he will be sitting in them with her.

Moments later, about a quarter of a mile away, Kára sat in the elbow of a tree, looking down at a cluster of pheasants pecking at the ground for worms. Her bow was aimed and ready to shoot a particular fat looking one when suddenly a blood curdling scream shook the forest and caused the birds to fly away at the abrupt and loud disturbance.

 **x x x**

Explaining to Aslaug the reason behind Ivar's broken leg would be result in immediate death, so Ivar had opted to avoid telling her the truth entirely. He told her he had rolled down a hill and slammed his leg on a jutted boulder, and that Hulda was close enough that ran to him on time and mended him immediately. Nevertheless, his mother freaked out over his carelessness, and chose to keep Ivar beside him for the next few days.

However, Hulda was not finished with her treatment for his legs. She had splinted them and bound them at the thigh and knee in order to straighten the knocked knees, but in order for him to one day stand with any semblance of strength, he needed to eat the correct foods. Being that most of the healers of Kattegat had left with Ragnar to tend to their wounded, Hulda was Aslaug's last resort, which was the only reason why she allowed her to stay in the Great Hall to take care of his broken legs.

Ivar never ate so much liver in his life; not to mention as much fruit as Hulda made him eat. He was used to consuming porridge every morning like most children do, but his diet had doubled. After two moons passed, Ivar felt his stomach bulge from the food he had consumed, but most importantly, he noticed his thighs had gotten thicker to the point where they needed to loosen the bindings, and resize him for new trousers.

Kára took amusement to his growing tummy, often poking the doughiness of it just to watch his gut jiggle, then promptly laugh like a child right after. As annoying as that was, it was nothing compared to Sigurd calling him "Ivar the Fatness" every chance he got. During dinner one day, Kára had flung a potato from her spoon right into Sigurd's eye, and called him "Sigurd-Potato-In-The-Eye" ever since.

At the third month of his healing process, he was given permission to leave the comfort of the Great Hall and Aslaug's watchful eye. He was still splinted, and wasn't able to drag himself, but he was allowed to be pushed around by Sigurd and Kára around Kattegat. His niece, Siggy, sat on his lap, screaming her delights as she was pushed around.

By the time the sun began to set, Siggy had fallen asleep on Ivar's lap, Sigurd was forced to pick her up and take her back to the longhouse while Kára and Ivar remained. They sat at the bank of water near Floki's hut, which was abandoned with both Helga and the boatman in Paris. Being away from the city, it was blissfully quiet there. Ever since Ivar had been allowed out of the safety of the longhouse, it had become their chosen destination to go and talk. There wasn't much else that Ivar could do with his splinted leg, and bound to the wheelbarrow as he was once when he was small. So most of their time spent together was fletching arrows, telling tales of the gods, and talking about what they wish their futures would be.

"Now that you are no longer afraid of the water, sailing on a raid should no longer be an issue for you, " Ivar looked off in the water as he dug up a slim rock and attempted to skid it across the surface of the river, only for it to plop into it.

Kára scrunched up her face, "The sea is much deeper and darker than the lake," she looked at her own smooth rock in her hand and backed up. Flinging it, it had skated off the surface of the water three times before plunging into water. "There are many unknown creatures it can hide."

Ivar craned his neck to look at her, "How do you know this?"

"It is home to Jörmungandr," she replied matter-of-factly. "And the sea is not like the lake, which freezes solid and unmoving once a year. The lake can be easily navigated, and never changes in size or depth. But the sea is unpredictable and unforgiving, and no god can control it."

"It has no master," Ivar added, which earned a nod from Kára.

She took a moment to let out a long sigh before continuing, "Besides, Floki told me of a creature tha-"

Ivar blinked, and looked back over at Kára when she cut herself off. "That what-?"

She didn't reply, though Ivar didn't need her to. He followed her gaze further down the bay, where a man in travelers garb stood. His cloak was brown and rough, his tunic over worn and faded in colour, and his hair was plaited in a braid so long it reached the small of his back. The man was far away, and looked unarmed, but Kára wasted no time in grabbing the woodcutter's axe from the stump nearby.

"At ease, children," the man said, the voice eerily familiar to Ivar. There was an odd comfort to it, almost like Hulda's, but at the same time, it felt like it came from the lips of a liar. Kára's grip on the axe tightened, but the man continued his slow steps towards them, this time with his hands out in surrender. "I mean you no harm."

"Says the wolf to the doe," Kára muttered. "Name yourself, traveller, so I may know what runes to mark your shallow grave."

Kára's threat stirred something in Ivar he couldn't quite comprehend. It was akin to excitement, but instead of the familiar rapid beatings of his heart caused by adrenalin, it ached his stomach and pelvis. However, he could not dwell on this feeling any longer, because the stranger's eyes were on him this time.

"I am a friend of Ivar's," the man said, earning Ivar a confused look from Kára. Ivar was just as confused, but when he moved his eyes from his red-headed friend and back to the stranger, the man was closer and Ivar had a better look at him. "Do you not remember me, Ivar?" his smile was soft, knowing, and unwavering.

Kára's hand had not slackened from the firm grip she had on the axe, nor did her eyes stray far away from the stranger, and his movements. The moment he came walking towards Ivar, she had placed herself between him and her friend. This action made the stranger move his eyes to Kára, with that smile of ease still in place. His eyes, deep and mysterious as they were, sparkled with interest now that he could see the girl's fire.

However, the longer the traveller looked into her eyes, the smile began to fall a fraction. Kára did not tear her eyes from him, but the moment the turn of his lips moved into a straight line, her brow furrowed deeper.

"Who. Are. You?" She demanded again, raising the axe over her shoulder, ready to plunge the blade between his eyes.

"I think that is a question you should be asking yourself," the man said, the straight line of his mouth now returning to his smile of ease.

"Harbard," came another voice, "His name is Harbard."

All three heads turned to the trees; a sea of green and brown, save for a canvas of flowing red fabrics and blood red hair. Hulda's white face peaked beyond the hood of her cloak, her eyes like two sharp arrowheads glittering under the flaming sun, and they pointed at the shrouded stranger.

The man, Harbard, slowly stepped back from his approach of the two children upon seeing the Völva standing there. He tilted his head up, exposing his neck, not unlike an animal submitting to an alpha. Hulda moved along the grass and over the gravel before she reached her daughter's side.

"Kára, it is time to bring Ivar back home,"

"But, mother-" In a rapid movement, Hulda's eyes were on the girl, a look like she had never seen. Clamping her mouth shut, she dropped the woodcutter's axe into the stump and hurried over to Ivar and his wheelbarrow.

Hulda had waited until they were out of earshot and out of sight before turning to look at Harbard. Her jaw was as hard as steel as she regarded him for a silent second.

"Your company is not wanted in Kattegat."

Harbard quirked an eyebrow, "You cannot prevent me from going into the city."

"Perhaps I cannot stop your physical body," she admits, but steps closer, "But you have no power here anymore. You will no longer blind and torture the Seer as you did all those years ago, and you will no longer be taking any lives as you did before."

Harbard merely stared at her in silence, his face neutral for the most part, but her warning had wiped off any ease he wore on his features. "Does Aslaug approve of this, I wonder? You, repressing my magic here, and the work you've doing on her favourite son's legs?" He tilted his head and brought back his simple smile. "Do not doubt my love for Queen Aslaug, her sons, and the people of Kattegat. That love extends to you, as well, Hulda the Red, if you would only open your heart to me as the others."

Hulda narrowed her eyes at him, but remained silent.

Harbard took a step closer to her, "How lonely you must be, after all these years a widow-" he paused and leaned back when he felt the curved iron blade tucked under his chin.

The witch remained unmoved in her spot, only her arm, extended to reach his height as it balanced the iron dagger under his bearded chin. "I would not use that word so loosely, Harbard. Love is rare; use it foolishly, and you will never be able to recognize it when you see its true form."

"Do you speak from experience?"

A second hand reached out to him, too fast that he hadn't a moment to react, but he wished he had. She grabbed his beard and the iron sagger sliced through the hair like fabric. In her hand she held half of his beard. This meant many different things; she emasculated him, but most of all, what she held in her hand was a leverage. If she really wanted to, she could turn him into a puppet, but he knew that she wasn't the kind of witch.

He watched with wide eyes as she tucked the lock of his beard between her breasts, "And what do you intend to do with that?"

Hulda began to walk backwards around him, the dagger still clutched in her hand, "Collateral damage." That's all she needed to say for him to understand.

Hulda returned to the forest that protected her all these years, and left him where he stood. Harbard intended to finish what he began the last time he had been in Kattegat, but with his magic repressed, and now his life in the hands of a woman who hated him, his only tool was his charm. Any sacrifice he made for a ritual, be it animal or otherwise, would only end up backfiring and killing him instead. So with a tentative step, Harbard began his trek towards Kattegat, where he knew someone else was waiting for him, for a very long time.

* * *

 **Information regarding my decision that I had mentioned in the prologue to change Ivar's condition:**

So I don't claim to be a medical expert, and anatomy and medicine could only go so far back then, so what Hulda spoke of probably isn't 100%. But I digress: I changed the condition Ivar has, because if you actually look into it, there is no proof he had Osteogenesis Imperfecta (brittle bone disease), or was disabled at all. Historics have claimed he was called boneless because he was ruthless and felt no pain. But i'd never take away his disability for the sake of convenience, I just wanted to make it more realistic, because contrary to what the show portrays, that isn't how Osteogenesis Imperfecta works. They got the blue eyes right, but to be frank, if he did have Osteogenesis Imperfecta, he a) wouldn't be impotent, because it has nothing to do with the ability to procreate or get an erection b) his legs wouldn't be the only thing that is affected by the disease (eg. his teeth would be small and brittle, his spine would be curved, he would be shorter than he should be, he would have bad eyesight.), and c) there are a long list of other issues that people with Osteogenesis Imperfecta face that would make what he does extremely difficult physically.

Bare in mind I have done enough research on this before I made this decision. I as well have discussed the opinions of other fans and history nerds about this and they all agree that the direction in the show does not reflect what Osteogenesis Imperfecta actually looks like. This may be an unpopular opinion to one or more of you, and I'm willing to discuss what I got wrong with anyone through private messaging, but at the end of the day, my decision for Ivar was to give him another disability.

I gave him undiagnosed and untreated Genu valgum, also known as knock-knee, which is common in a lot of infants after birth. My idea was that due to the lack of knowledge in this area, everyone believed that Ivar could never walk when they saw his misshapen legs when he was born, and as a result had bound him to sitting his entire life, which contributed to his fragile legs, because they lacked muscle and fat to protect his bones. At a young age he broke his leg and it was left untreated and thus healed wrong, and that was why he was in so much pain.

Even though I hinted at the possibility of Ivar walking again with Hulda's care, I will never take away his disability; he would not be Ivar without it. He will always have a difficult time walking; this was just to explain how he was able to stand on his knees and eventually gain the leg power to stand up in the later seasons using his crutches and metal splint and not be in severe pain.

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Chapter 12 was difficult to write, but after that is published, things will start to speed up timeline wise.**


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